
Book _-«C 2S ^. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



CONRAD'S POETICAL WORKS. 



AYLMERE, 




OR e*'^^^' 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT; 



dMjin ^nmi 



\^' 



ROBERT T. CONRAD. 




PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 

1852. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, 

BY E. H. BUTLER AND CO., 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



DEDICATORY. 



TO JOHN CONRAD, ESQ. 

How mucli that Young Time gave hath Old Time ta'en ; 
Snatching his blessings back with churlish haste, 
And leaving life a wreck-encumbered waste ! 

And yet I murmur not — for you remain ! 

You and my mother, and the hoarded wealth 

Of home, and love, and high and hearted thought. 
Which Youth in Memory's wizard woof enwrought ; — 

These are ''laid up" where Time's ungentle stealth 

Can reach them not. And 'tis a joy to bring 
This humble garland, woven in the wild. 
Back to the hearth and roof-tree of the child : 

The wearied heart bears home its offering. 

If it relume the approving smile of yore, — 

Guerdon and glory then,— father, I crave no more. 



1* 



PREFATORY. 



There has been no attempt, in the following work, to 
adhere strictly to the facts of history ; though the author 
has endeavoured generally to portray the condition of the 
people and the causes and character of the insurrection. 
It is imagined, in the play, that the leader of the Com- 
mons was originally a villein of the name of Cade ; after- 
wards a fugitive known as Aylmere ; then, after an absence 
abroad, returning to England, he excites an insurrection 
for the double purpose of avenging his own wrongs and of 
abolishing the institution, villeinage, which made him a 
bondman. After his triumph, he resumes his original 
name. The tragedy, as originally written and now pre- 
sented to the reader, comprises much that was not designed 
for, and is not adapted to, the stage. As performed, it 
has been so curtailed and modified that the author pre- 
sumes that he need not apprehend the hazardous experi- 



viu PREFATOEY. 

ment of its representation in its present shape. To the 
judgment and taste of Mr. Forrest he is indebted for the 
suggestions which prepared " Aylmere" for the stage ; and 
to the eminent genius of that unrivalled tragedian and 
liberal patron of dramatic literature, its flattering success 
at home and abroad may be justly ascribed. 

For a brief historical review of the insurrection which 
forms the subject of the drama, the reader is referred to 
the Note at the close of the volume. 



CONTENTS. 



Dedication, .... 

Preface, .... 

Aylmere, The Bondman of Kent, 

The Sons of the Wilderness, . 

The Pride of Worth, 

To my Wife, 

The Pious Sister, 

My Brother, 

The Wail of the Tyrol, 

Chorus in (Edipus Tyrannus, 

Lines on a Blind Boy, soliciting Charity by playing on his Flute, 

Death— the Deliverer, . 

Absence, .... 

War, .... 

Lines, .... 

Byron, .... 

Hillside Moralities, 

To Roxana, 

The Declaration, 

The Stricken, . 

Sonnet — To a young Inralid abroad, 

To a Backward Lover, . 

The Rose and the Dew-drop, 

Muttra, .... 

To a Superannuated Statesman, . 

Sonnet— To Arabella, sleeping. 



r.\GE 
5 

7 
13 
167 
182 
183 
184 
187 
191 
193 
195 
197 
201 
202 
203 
205 
206 
212 
214 
215 
217 
218 
220 
221 
224 
225 



CONTENTS. 



On the Death of General Taylor, ...... 


. 226 


The Lone One, ......... 


231 


Freedom, ......... 


. 232 


Address, prepared for the Opening of the Walnut Street Theatre, 


240 


The First Disappointment, ...... 


. 243 


Sonnet— On the Invasion of the Koman Republic, 


245 


Lines on the Death of a Young Married Lady, 


. 246 


■To Maggie, ......... 


248 


Christmas Hymn, ........ 


. 249 


Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer, ...... 


250 


Fireman's Address, ... .... 


. 257 


Memory, ...... ... 


261 


Sin no More, ........ 


. 262 


Napoleon's Death, ........ 


264 


Lines for Music, ........ 


. 266 


The Right, 


267 


Alone, ......... 


. 268 


The Reviler Rebuked, .... ... 


270 


The Wife of the Inebriate, 


. 272 


Poland, .......... 


275 


The Sensualist's Warning, ...... 


. 276 


The Beam on the Waters, ....... 


278 


A Sketch, 


. 279 


The Inconstant's Triumph, ....... 


281 


Song, ......... 


. 283 


The Reconciliation, ........ 


284 


The Waiting Wife, ... 


285 


Sonnet to Dr. E. B. G., . 


286 



To Aylmere, 

To The Sons of the Wilderness, 



287 
308 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Lord Say. 

Lord Clifford. 

Duke of Buckingham. 

Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Aylmere, or Jack Cade. 

Wat Worthy, ') 

-.TT ,r r yeome7i. 

Will Mowbray, ) 

Lacy — A Friar of the Order of the ilendicants. 

Jack Straw, "v 

Dick Pembroke, V Villeins or Bondmen on the Barony of Say. 

Roger Sutton, J 

CouRTNAY — Steivard to Lord Say. 

Child — The Son of Aylmere. 

Lord, Ist and 2d Kentishvicn, Prisoner, Soldiers, Peasants, 

The Bond, ^c. 

Widow Cade — A Neif or Bondwoman to Say — Mother of Aylmere. 
Mariamne — Wife of Aylmere. 
Kate Worthy — Betrothed to Mowhray. 
Female Attendants. 

Scene: Kent and London. Time: ^4. Z>. 1450. 



A Y L M E R E 



ACT FIRST. 

SCENE FIRST. 

The hovels of the bond discovered. Jack Straw, Dick Pembroke, Roger 
Sutton (bondmen), dressed coarsely, with implements of labour, as if going 
to their work. 

STRAW. 

Or corn three stinted measures ! And that doled 

With scourge and curse ! Rough fare, even for a bondman. 

PEMBROKE. 

Yet must he feed, from this, his wife and children ; 
What if they starve ? Courtnay cares not for that. 

SUTTON. 

His music is the lash ! He makes him merry 
With our miseries. Our lords are hot and harsh, 
Yet are they milder than their mongrel minions. 

STRAW. 

I'd cheerly toil, were Courtnay yoked this day 
Unto my plough. 



14 AYLMERE, 



PEMBROKE. 

He seizes on the havings, 
The little way-found comforts of the bond, 
Nor vouchsafes e'en a " Wi' your leave, good man." 

SUTTON. 

Man, matron, maid — alas, that it is so ! 
All are their victims. 

PEMBROKE. 

Would we were not men. 
But brutes — they are used kindlier ! 

STRAW. 

Men are we not. 
Brutes only would bear this. Bond have there been 
Who brooked it not. 

PEMBROKE. 

Who were they ? 
STRAW. 

Old Cade, one ; 
Who struck down the Lord Say ; — not this base coistrel, 
Courtnay, but e'en Lord Say, because he spurned him. 

PEMBROKE. 

He died for it. 

STRAW. 

But what of that ? 'Tis better 



THE BONDMAN OP KENT. 15 

To die than thus to live. His stripling son — 
Young Cade — remember you Jack Cade ? 

PEMBROKE. 

Not I. 
Our Sutton must. 

SUTTON. 

He who, some ten years gone, 
Fled from the barony ? 

STRAW. 

The same. Well, he 
A bondman and a boy, stood by, when Say 
Wronged the pale widow Cade, by a base jest 
Upon the husband he had scourged to death. 
What think you did the boy ? 

PEMBROKE. 

Rebuked his lordship ? 

STRAW. 

He struck him down, and 'scaped the barony. 
He hath ne'er since been heard of. So he won 
Both liberty and vengeance. 

SUTTON. 

A brave boy ! 
'Twas Friar Lacy taught him this : and he 
Says that all men are in God's image made. 
And all are equal. 



16 AYLMERE, 



PEMBKOKE. 

He liath preached through Kent, 
Till bond and yeoman weary with their lot. 
The down-trodden yet may, some day, turn and sting 
The foot that tramples them. 

STRAW. 

I'm ready for it. 
The yeoman all are with us. Master Mowbray, 
A bold, hot spirit, and Wat Worthy too. 
The old and doughty blacksmith, yeomen good, 
Wealthy and well-approved, encourage Lacy 
In his bold preaching of the poor man's right. 

SUTTON. 

Mowbray is trothed to Master Worthy's daughter ; 
And Courtnay, it is said, doth woo the girl. 

STRAW. 

An' Mowbray want a stout heart and rough hand. 
Jack Straw will thank him for a loving chance 
Of braining the pet whelp. 

PEMBROKE. 

Work you to-day ? 

STRAW. 

My wife is sick to death : I must watch by her. 
Yet little hope or comfort is there for her, 
In my poor hovel. Ha ! the steward comes — 
The crawling Courtnay. 

{Enter Courtnay.) 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 17 

COUKTNAY. 

Sunrise, and ye loiter ! 

Slaves, drudges, to your toil ! or I'll so scourge you ! 

SUTTON. 

We go, your worship. 

lUxit Sutton. 

COURTNAY. 

Get thee gone. And thou — 
Why dost thou stand ? 

PEMBROKE. 

My children have no food ; 
Give me to feed them, ere I go afield. 

COURTNAY. 

Dost murmur, rogue ! This hath your beggar priest, 
The shaveling who talks treason, taught you. Off ! 

PEMBROKE. 

Give me an hour to labour for a crust. 
They pine, to perishing, for food ! 

COURTNAY. 

A trick — 
A stale device ! 

PEMBROKE. 

No, by this light, it is not. 
2* 



18 



COURTNAY. 

What care I for your brats ? Away to work ! 

PEMBROKE. 

Nay, gentle master Stewart — 

COURTNAY. 

Knave, dost argue ? 
I'll have thee instant i' the stocks. 

PEMBROKE. 

I go, sir. 
Alas, my children ! 

[Exit Pembkoke slowly/. 
COURTNAY. 

And thou, what dost thou here ? Art silent, patch ? 
Wilt not to work ? 

STRAW. 

No. 

COURTNAY. 

Saucy carle, dar'st beard me ? 

STRAW. 

My wife is sick — sick unto death : I will not. 
To pleasure any he that lives, leave her 
To die alone. 

COURTNAY. 

Thou lying knave ! Dost think — 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 1^9 



STRAW. 

I lie not^ Sir. O'ercome with toil, she fainted 

I' the field : four days and nights I have watched o'er her ; 

And cannot toil — and would not, if I could. 

COURTNAY {raising his staff). 

Villain ! 

STRAW (drawing his knife from his girdle). 

Strike, an' thou durst ! 

COURTNAY. 

I'll have thee flayed 



And hung for this. 



[^Fxit CoURTNAY. 



STRAW. 

I care not, I ! 
Why should I wish to live ? Would I and mine 
Were on the hillside lain, where bond and free 
Are equal ! 

\_Fzit Straw. 



SCENE SECOND. 

The house 0/ Worthy. Worthy, Mowbray, awe? Kate. 

WORTHY. 

Take, with her, my blessing. A good child, Kate, 
Thou shouldst make a good wife. 



20 



MOWBEAY. 

A blessed wife. 
Mine own sweet Kate ! 

KATE. 

Nay, Will, thou know'st not that. 
Remember, I must ever have my way ! 
For 'tis i' the contract. 

WORTHY. 

Hush, thou merry madcap ! 
A wild bird is she, this same bride of thine, 
Fluttering and singing ever. But go, girl ; 
Our holy father. Friar Lacy, comes. 
He must not see this trifling. 

KATE. 

Will, remember ! 
'Tis i' the contract that I shall be shrewish. 
If there be murmuring, thou shalt be so spur-galled ! 
I'll beat thee, Will, i' faith ! 

[Uxit Kate. 

MOWBRAY. 

Bye, sweetheart, bye ! 

WORTHY. 

My heart is like mine anvil, hard and solid, 
And has, by a harsh world, been hammered on, 
For many a year ; but, on the honest word 
Of a poor blacksmith, this old heart aches sorely 
To lose her. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 

{Enter Friar Lacy.) 
LACY. 

My benediction, sons. 

WORTHY. 
Thanks, father, for 
This timely visit. Courtnay, our lord's steward, 
Hath wooed my daughter. 

MOWBRAY. 

Hang him, mangy knave ! 

WORTHY. 

And for that Mowbray is to wed my girl. 
He swears he will denounce us unto Say. 
In foamy rage to-day he met our Will, 
And — out upon the minion ! 

LACY. 

Did he beat thee ? 

MOWBRAY. 

He knew me better. I had brained the hound. 
The lily-livered lecher ! 

WORTHY. 

Eight, my boy ! 

LACY. 

Nay, son, be not too heady ; have a care. 

MOWBRAY. 

Am I a bondman ? Was I not born free ? 



21 



22 AYLMERE, 

Now, God-a-mercy ! Am not I a yeoman ? 

No slave of Say's, nor bound to heed his lacquey. 

LACY. 

Thou art not free. 

MOWBRAY. 

Not free ! 

LACY. 

Nor I, nor any ! 
The curse is on us all. What though you be 
A yeoman born ? Go to, you are not free. 
You may nor toil nor rest, nor love nor hate. 
Nor joy nor grieve, without your baron's leave. 
Free quotha ! Ay, free as the falcon is 
That flies on high, but may be caged again, 
Whene'er its master wills to draw its jesses. 

WORTHY. 

Now, by my troth, he's right. We too are slaves, 

Albeit they do not rank us with the bond. 

The down-browed serfs o' the soil : yet are we slaves, 

And homage do with meek and supple knee. 

Unto our baron; follow him to the wars; 

Cut throats, and make, for his divertisement, 

Widows and orphans at a groat a^day ! 

LACY. 

And why do English yeomen bow to this ? 

Men of stout hearts and hands ? I've told you oft 

That man to man is but a brother. All, 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 23 

Master and slave, spring from tlie self-same fount ; 
And why should one drop in the ocean flood 
Be better than its brother ? No, my masters ! 
It is a blasphemy to say Heaven formed 
The race, a few as men, the rest as reptiles. 

WORTHY. 

Again, by the mass, is Father Lacy right ! 
I'll stand by it ! 

LACY. 

'Tis not alone the bond : 
Ye who are yeomen, and who should be free. 
Are taxed and tortured, wronged and mocked like slaves. 

WORTHY. 
England will never raise her head until 
Lord Treasurer Say hath fall'n. 

LACY. 

And the poor bond 
Become as men made in their Maker's image. 
Be sure 'twill come ! I've prophesied it long : 
And yet 'twill come ! But, Master Mowbray, this 
Your bridal day deserves a softer theme ; 
And Kate will chide thee for the gloom that gathers 
Upon thy brow. Farewell ! I must to the cot 
Of the poor widow Cade, whose sorrows ask 
My charity. 

MOWBRAY. 

Thou'lt be with us anon? 
We'll wait thy blessing. 



24 AYLMERE, 



LACY. 

Thou shalt have it, son ; 
And this one truth, which, cherished in thy thought, 
Will win all blessings to thee. Wouldst be loved ? 
My son, remember, love hath but one life ; 
And smitten by the frosts of chill neglect, 
Ne'er blooms again : its winter knows no spring. , 

MOWBRAY. 

Not if the wanderer return again 
Contrite and loving ? 

LACY. 

Not ev'n then. His love 
Beams out like morning's light upon the form 
That stiffened in the night-snow. It can ne'er 
Warm it to life again. My son, be warned ! 

MOWBRAY. 

I fear not : who could throw away a treasure 
So rich as that I win in Kate ? 



LACY. 

Farewell ! 



SCENE THIRD. 

The cot 0/ Widow Cade, Widow Cade solus. 

WIDOW CADE. 

A heavy lot and hopeless ! Friendless, poor, 



[Exeunt. 



THEBONDMANOFKENT. 25 

Stricken with years and sorrow, and bowed down 
Beneath the fierce frown of offended power ! 
Woukl widowhood and life would sink together 
Into mj husband's grave ! 

[Enter Friar. Lacy.) 

Good morrow, father ! 

LACY. 

'Tis strange ! No aid yet from the castle, dame ? 

WIDOW. 

The castle ? No, sir, no ; they aid me not. 
I am worn out with years and toil and sorrow ; 
And 'tis our steward's wont the useless bond 
To turn adrift. 'Tis profit they should die. 
We only know our masters by our miseries. 

LACY. 

'Tis true — 'tis true ! Their horses arQ used better — 
Their hawks, their hounds, are nearer kin to them 
Than their bond brethren. They ! they know not pity. 
The poor have no friends but the poor ; the rich — 
Heaven's stewards upon earth — rob us of that 
They hold in trust for us, and leave us starveling. 
They shine above us, like a winter moon. 
Lustrous, but freezing. But, good dame, to leave 
This idle railing, got you that this morn 
I sent you ? 

WIDOW. 

Thanks ! It stood 'twixt me and famine ; 
My boy, when he returns, will bless you for 't. 



26 - AYLMERE, 



LACY. 

Still hoping, dame, tliy boy's return ? How brave 
Is a mother's love ! Why ten long years have past, 
And not a token from him. 

WIDOW. 

Oh, good father, 
Do not divorce me from that hope ! 'Tis fed 
Upon my heart. 

LACY. 

A dream ! 

WIDOW. 

An' if it be, 
I would not give it for earth's brightest substance. 
But 'tis no dream. I'm sure my dear John lives ; 
For when he fled, with his last kiss, poor boy ! 
He promised to be thoughtful of his weal, 
Ev'n for my sake. 

LACY. 

He went with a high heart ! 
For I had taught him to look up to God 
As his sole rightful lord. He sought a land 
Where the poor peasant's heart may dare to throb 
Without a master's leave : and ^' There," he said, 
" There where the human soul has slipped its jesses, 
Stooping no more at the rich tyrant's call, 
But soaring where it lists, I'll win my way, 
For I can do it." 



THE BONDMAN OP KENT. 27 



WIDOW. 

And so he could, and has ! 
My noble boy ! '' Though years may pass away," 
He said when last he clasped me, " ne'er despair ; 
I'll come again, and come in honour, mother." 

And so he will ! {A knocking at the door.) 

A knocking at my door ! 
'Tis seldom poverty hath visitants, 
Save want and terror. Enter, enter, sir. 

[Enter Aylmere (Jack Cade), Mariamne, and Child.) 
[To Lacy.) Come they from the castle ? 

LACY. 

They are strangers, dame. 

AYLMERE {aside). 

She knows me not ! My Mariamne, mark, 
She knows me not ! A wanderer, dame, 
Houseless and heavy-hearted, craves a place 
For these, his wife and child, beside your hearth. 

WIDOW. 

Alack ! I am but bond, fair sir ; and want 
And widowhood must be my only inmates. 

AYLMERE. 

Nay, I have golden intercessors, dame, 
Thou shalt not want. 



28 



A Y L M E R E, 



WIDOW. 

The home of a poor neif 
Doth not beseem your worship. At the castle 
You will find fitting entertainment, sir. 

AYLMERE. 

No, we are stricken fleers from the hunt. 

Who seek a covert from the wild halloo, 

Where the world's heartless rout may reach us not 

We would not flaunt our sorrows in the eyes 

Of mocking greatness. Let us bide with thee ; 

And we will be as children to thee, dame. 

And thou shalt be our mother. 

LACY {interposing to Widow Cade). 

Let me speak, 
Good dame, a welcome for thee. 

WIDOW {To Lacy). 

If you will it. 

LACY. 

Fair sir, if home so lowly be desired, — 
/ And 'tis not lowly, for 'tis virtue's home — 
You will be welcome in it. 

WIDOW. 

Lady, if welcome and a willing service 
Can make my poor cot rich, it is a palace. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 29 

And thoii, my boy {kissing Mm), shalt wake again the shout 
And laugh that for long years — sad years they've been — 
My cottage has not known. Hast travelled far ? 

(To Maeiamne.) 

MARIAMNE. 

Even from Italy. 

WIDOW. 

His refuge ! 

(Widow Cade, Mariamne, and Child, retire and converse.) 
AYLMERE (to Lacy). 

Hath our dame no child ? 

LACY. 

No : she is alone. 

AYLMERE. 

Hath she been ever childless ? 

LACY. 

She had a son — poor John ! — a noble boy, 
Pure as the bud unblasted ; gentle, brave ; 
And with a heart stirred only by such thoughts 
As angels prompt. But he is gone ! 

AYLMERE. 

Gone ! Whither ? 
3* 



30 



A Y L M E R E, 



LACY. 

So self-discarding, he lived but for others ; 

So brave, so early wise! "Here's one," I said, 

"That may be made the land's deliverer." 

I took him to my cell, and in his soul 

Poured all mine own. By day and night, for years, 

I sought to foster in his breast a love 

For all men, bond or noble, all that heaven 

Hath quickened with its breath, and made to rank 

Above earth's gilt nobility, Avith angels. 

But, thou'rt a stranger : haply I speak that 

Which thou deem'st treason. 

AYLMEEE. 

Nay, say on, good father. 
I come from Italy, free Italy, whose altars, 
Unwarmed a thousand years, are now lit up 
With the rekindled fires of freeborn Home. 
Thy pupil, proved he apt ? 

LACY. 

In sooth, he did. 
In the hushed cloister's solitude, I taught him 
That bond and baron had one Sire, and all 
Were brethren, equal all, all noble, save 
Those whom their vice debased ; and that the law 
Of our blest faith is violate by the force 
That makes the feeble bond. He caught the light 
As the earth meets the dawn. 
Glowing with noble ardour. I recounted 
The story of those gods on earth who joyed 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. SI 

In dying for the people, till, in his eyes, 
Such death looked lovelier than a bridal smile. 
That flinty, high philosophy I taught him. 
Which makes cold, hunger, suffering, in the cause 
Of a crushed people, luxuries sweeter far 
Than ease and honour on their silken couch, 
Tended by wan-eyed homage. 

AYLMERE. 

Well ; you made 
His spirit free ? 

LACY. 

Ay, free and fearless too. 
Nor life, nor death, had for his soul a terror. 

AYLMERE. 

I fear me thou'rt a boaster. But thy wonder — 
Did he, in all this budding promise, die ? 

WIDOW. 

That tone ! Have I not heard that voice before ? 
It must have been in dreams. Forgive me, lady. 

{They resume their conversatioji.) 
LACY. 

His father, though a bondman, was a rough 

And heady carle when wronged. He, on a day, 

Was struck down by his lord, the Baron Say. 

He was a man, albeit a slave, and rising. 

He shouted : " Blow for blow, by Heaven !" and struck him. 



32 



For which offence, as a born serf, he was 
Condemned and scourged to death. 

AYLMERE. 

A most foul murder ! 
His dog would, stricken thus, have turned upon him. 
But tell your story out. 



LACY. 

His father's fate 
Booted, like nightshade, in the stripling's heart. 
And angered o'er his brow with sterner thoughts, 
Than early life should know. 



AYLMERE. 

You're wrong, you're wrong ! 
Wormlike and worthy spurning had he been. 
Had not the memory of that wrong been food, 
And drink, and sleep, and life to him, until 
It was avenged ! 

WIDOW. 

What spell is this ? Why leaps 
My heart at every cadence of his voice ? 

(Widow Cade comes forward.) 
LACY. 

It made an exile of him. Thus it fell : 
The proud Say, when a hunting, happed to enter 
The cot of her whom he had made a widow ; 
And spoke as tyrant power to weakness speaks, 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 



33 



In scorn and wrong. Young Cade, for he was bond, 
The bondman, too, of Say, should have been governed. 
But youth, you know, is hot — 

AYLMERE. 

Ay, so he should ! 
He should have knelt before him ; kissed the hand 
Black with his father's blood ; and smiled, content, 
On that wan widowed mother's wrongs ! The murderer ! 

LACY. 

He flung the foul scorn back. 

AYLMERE {quickly). 

He did. He did. 

LACY. 

The proud lord would have spurned him ; but young Cade — 

AYLMERE. 

I struck him to my feet ! {Laughs.) I've not forgot it ! 
How kissed his scarlet doublet the mean earth. 
Beneath a bondman's blow, and he a lord ! 
That memory hath made my exile green ! 

(Widow Qat>'e. falls back into a seat, supported by Mariamne. 
Aylmere comes forward and kneels.) 

Look up, my mother ! Cade hath kept his covenant. 
Could you read all my exile's history. 
You would not blush for it. And now I've come 
To shield and comfort thee. 



34 AYLMEllE, 

WIDOW. 

I knew thou wouldst ! 
That I should know thee not, my gentle boy ! 

AYLMERE {presenting Mariamne.) 

A blessing for thy daughter ! 
WIDOW {to Mariamne). 

Bless thee ! Bless thee ! 

AYLMERE. 

The star that shone upon my fate, when all 

But that was clouded. {To Lacy.) Bear with me, my father, 

My mind's father ! 

LACY. 

Now has o'erwearied Heaven 

Granted its servant's prayer, and I am happy ! 

Thou hast outstripped thy promise. When thou fled'st, 

A midnight fugitive, from the bondman's death, 

I little hoped to meet thee thus. But, in. 

Worn with long travel, you need food and rest. 

\_Exeunt. 



SCENE FOURTH. 

Before Worthy's cottage. A wedding festival. Worthy, Mowbray, Kate, 
and cottagers. 

WORTHY. 

Now, may my anvil never ring again 



THE BONDMAN OF. KENT. 35 

To the merry sledge, an' I be not this day, 
Happy as ere a man in Kent. 

MOWBRAY. 

And I. 
Think'st thou not, sweetheart, while I gaze on thee 
Till my eyes fill, and I would play the child 
And weep for very rapture, thus to know. 
Thou art mine own at last — think'st not I'm happier 
Than the best peer in England ? 

KATE. 

Thine, Will, thine ! 
I am not thine ! I'll yet say nay^ when Father 
Lacy asks the question. 

MOWBRAY. 

Rebel ! He comes. 

[Filter Lacy.) 
WORTHY. 

Welcome, father ! Is not my Kate a brave one ? 
And yet that haggard Courtnay dared to think o' her ! 
No, Kate shall wed none but a jolly yeoman. 

LACY. 

They'd dance, good master ; better we retire. 
Age hath left little dancing in thy limbs, 
Old yeoman ! 

WORTHY. 

Right. My heart doth all my dancing, 
For this good day. 

{Enter Courtnay.) 



36 



MOWBRAY. 

The minion Courtnay ! 

KATE. 

Heed him not, dear Will ! 
Chafe not, mine own dear Will ! 

MOWBRAY. 

The leering slave ! 

KATE. 

Thou'lt not deny me now. I know thou wilt not. 

COURTNAY (aside). 

They shun me. There is Father Lacy too. 

And old Wat Worthy. (To Mowbray.) Nay, good Master 

Mowbray, 
Look not so proudly fond. She's not thine yet. 
Why should I falter thus ? I'll speak. — Fair mistress — 

KATE. 

I know thee not. 

MOWBRAY. 

Brave Kate ! My heart for that ! 

COURTNAY. 

Anon thou'lt know me. As for thee, brave master — 

MOWBRAY. 

Mongrel, what mean'st thou ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 37 



COURTNAY. 

Nay, my master, chafe not : 
I've done thee service — spoken to the lord. 
And he will ban the bridal. Master Mowbray, 
Art thou not grateful ? 

MOWBRAY. 

So grateful, if 'tis true, 
I'll wed my knife to thy dog's heart. Come, Kate. 

COURTNAY. 

Now comes my turn ! Room, varlets, for Lord Say ! 
(Enter Say, Clifford, Buckingham, and attendants.) 

SAY. 
How now ? Art thou, carle, he would wed this maid ? 
Sirrah, when gave I leave thou shouldst so wed ? 

KATE {Clinging to Mowbray.) 

Answer him softly, Will ! For my sake, Will ! 

MOVfBRAY. 

I am a yeoman free, and free to wed 
E'en when and where it pleasures me. 

SAY. 

Ho! ho! 
Free, art thou, knave ! We'll see anon — we'll see ! 
And thou, {to Worthy) whom age should have taught duty, 

what 

4 



38 AYLMERE, 

Hath set thee on to wed thy daughter where 
I will she should not wed ? 

KATE. 
[Leaving Mowbray and clinging to Worthy.) 

Oh, be not rash ! 
Anger him not, my father ! 

WORTHY. 

Fear not, child. 
She's the free branch of a free stock ; and I 
May graft her where I list, and ask no leave 
Of liege or lord. So say our law and charter. 

SAY [to Lacy.) 
Accursed shaveling ! Thou it is hast taught 
This upstart spirit ! 



LACY {meekly. 



I have taught the truth. 



SAY. 

Vile monk, darest thou avow it to my face ? 

LACY. 

I dare speak truth to them, to thee, and any — 
It is my mission. 

SAY. 

Priest ! But for thy cowl, 
Thy mission should be to the nearest tree. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 39 

With cord instead of cassock. As for thee, {to Mowbray.) 
And thee, {to Worthy) who prate of right ; 'tis well you 

know. 
My will is charter and my rule is law. 
The sun that sees you wed, shall, ere its setting. 
Beam through your dungeon gates. Now get you gone. 

(Mowbray cmd Worthy loliisper angrily together. Kate interposes.) 
KATE. 

Nay, Will, be calm ! I will be thine. Ne'er fear ! 
Father, speak not, but go : urge him no further. 

COURTNAY {to Mowbray.) 
What says thy bride ? Who is the mongrel now ? 

MOWBRAY {in a low voice.) 

Thou ! Slave and wretch, here is the only bride. 
Thy heart shall clasp ! {His knife) Remember ! Ill forget 
not! 

{Exeunt Mowbray, Worthy, Kate, and their party.) 
COURTNAY {eagerly.) 

My lord, this yeoman — 

SAY. 

Peace ! I weary of this. 
Get to your homes : I'll hear no more to-day. 

COURTNAY. 

He says — 



40 A Y L M E R E, 

SAY. 

Off, slave ! Dost thou prate too ! 

COURTNAY {goiny.) 

Beshrew me, 
A dangerous varlet ! 

{Exit CouETNAY, Manext, Sat, Clifford, S^c.) 

SAY. 

These are the mire-gendered knaves you praise ! 
Clifford, I swear 'tis strange, that thou, a noble, 
Shouldst love these kern. 

CLIFFORD. 

Nay, I but love their daughters. 
But to be grave — you smile — I can be grave — 
They're men as good in soul and sinew, ay. 
Even in birth, as is the best of us. 

SAY. 

In birth ! Why now thou'rt wild. 

CLIFFORD. 

I said in birth. 
This crazy priest, his crazy couplet's right : 

"When Adam delved and Eve span. 

Who was then the gentleman?" 
A potent question ! Answer it, if you may. 

SAY. 

Why Heaven ne'er made the universe a level. 

Some trees are loftier than the rest ; some mountains 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 41 

O'erpeak their fellows ; and some planets shine, 
With brighter ray, above the skyey rout. 
Than others. Even at our feet, the rose 
Out-scents the lily ; and the humblest flower 
Is noble still o'er meaner plants. And thus. 
Some men are nobler than the mass, and should. 
By nature's order, shine above their brethren. 

CLIFFORD. 

'Tis true, the nolle should : but who is noble ? 
The scentless weed that grows i' the soil where grew 
The pride o' the garden ? And the dull, foul meteor 
Which streams where beamed a planet ? Say not so. 
Heaven and not heraldry makes noble men. 

BUCKINGHAM. 

Art dead to all the burning thoughts that speak 
A glorious past transmitted through long ages ? 

CLIFFORD. 

All this is well, or would be if 'twere true. 

Men cannot put their virtues in their wills. 

'Tis well to prate of lilies, lions, eagles, 

Flourishing in fields d'or or d' argent : but 

Your only heraldry, its true birth traced. 

Is the plough, loom, or hammer ! dusk-browed labour, 

At the red forge, or wall-eyed prudence o'er 

The figured ledger. Without them, pray tell me 

What were your nobles worth ? Not much, I trow ! 

BUCKINGHAM. 

Thou speak'st as fame were nothing — fame, the thirst 

4* 



42 ^ AYLMERE, 

Of gods and godlike men, to make a life 
Which nature makes not ; and to steal from Heaven 
Its imaged immortality ! Lord CliiFord, 
Wouldst rank this with the joys of ploughmen ? 

CLIFFORD. 

Yes. 
I would not dive for bubbles. Pish ! for fame ! 

SAY. 

Yet, Cliiford, hast thou fought, ay, hacked and hewed, 
By the long day, in sweat and blood, for fame. 

CLIFFORD. 

Nor have, nor will. I'll fight for love or hate, 

Or for divertisement ; but not for fame. 

What ! die for glory ! Leap a precipice 

To catch a shadow ! What is it, this fame ? 

Why, 'tis a brave estate to have and hold — 

When ? From and after death ! Die t'enjoy fame ! 

'Tis as to close our eyes before the mirror 

To know our sleeping aspects. No, by'r Lady ! 

I'll never be a miser of fair words. 

And hoard up honour for posterity. 

Die for glory ! 

SAY. 
Nay, an' thou die not, in a midnight brawl. 
Fought for some black-eyed wench, thoul't perish, coz. 
Of thine own spleen. But let us leave word-tilting. 
Did'st mark the sullen mood of yonder yeomen ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 
BUCKINGHAM. 

There's menace in their bearing ; how is this ? 
What do they murmur at ? 

SAY. 
At everything. 
They prate of rights and wrongs ; and talk in whispers 
Of the people's power. 

CLIFFORD. 

Ha ! they've found it out ! 
Believe me, Say, it is a frowning danger. 
When a crushed people, sturdy as our English, 
Know they have power to right themselves. 



48 



SAY-. 

What would you 



That I should do ? 



CLIFFORD. 

Nay, I care not, — not I ; 
A game of buffets, if you please ; but were I 
Lord Say and Suffolk, Counsellors of the King, 
I'd do the people right, — redress their wrongs — 
And trust their gratitude. 

SAY. 

Trust to the people ! 
The people ! Whelps that lick the hand which pets 
And chains them. 



44 A Y L M E R E, 

CLIFFORD. 

I care not for 'em ; — but by my halidom, 

I think tliey wrong not those that wrong not them. 

Why should they ? 

SAY. 

They but ask fair words — fair words. 
Hail them as gods, and you as worms may crush them, 
Knead them with spurning heel into the dunghill : 
But when they bow before some fungous idol, 
Or rush, like worried herds o'er some dread cliff, 
Into a certain ruin, — seek to save them — 
Speak, strive, strike, struggle, die for them — and they- 
While your spent heart gasps out its latest drops, 
For them— -/or them^ — will trample on it ! — No ! 
The mob ne'er had a friend they did not murder. 

CLIFFORD. 

Now, as thou'rt out of breath with railing, tell me. 
Whose cot is that down by yon clump of trees ? 
Such casket ill beseems the gem that shines 
Within. 

SAY. 

The Widow Cade's. Why how now ! grown 
So musty in your taste — threescore and ten ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Nay, not the widow. Say. The flower I'd cull 
Is fresh and fair and coy — dewy with youth. 
And bright with beauty. At the cot I saw her, 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 45 

And would have known more of her, but jour summons 
Called me away. I'll mark the house, and seek 
An hour to woo my rustic. 

lEzeunt. 



SCENE FIFTH. 

Widow Cade's cottage. Atlmere and Lacy. 

AYLMERE. 

For thy blest charities to my poor mother, 
My life is thine — all that I have and am. 

LACY. 

Thy worth will do me justice. 

AYLMERE. 

Justice ! Nay, 
'Tis the dull schoolman's boast — an iron virtue 
That hucksters forth its payments, piece for piece. 
Kindness for kindness, balanced churlishly. 
And nothing given for love. Be gratitude 
My justice ! 

The justice of the soul, that measures out 
Its rich requital, not in grudging doles. 
But by the heartful, o'er and o'er again. 
Till naught is left to give. I'll not forget. 

LACY. 

Enough for me that thou, the bondman spurned. 
Despised, oppressed, art where and what I'd have thee. 

AYLMERE. 

Alas ! not all that thou wouldst have me, father ! 



46 



A Y L M E R E, 



Ten years of freedom have not made me free. 

I've throttled Fortune till she yielded up 

Her brightest favours ; I have wooed Ambition, 

Wooed with a fiery soul and dripping sword, 

And would not be denied ; I turned from her, 

And raked amid the ashes of the past, 

For the high thoughts that burn but cannot die. 

Until my spirit walked with those who now 

Are hailed, as brethren, by archangels : — yet. 

Have I come home a slave, — a thing for chains 

And scourges — ay, a dog. 

Crouching, and spurned, and spat upon ! 

LACY. 

Not so ; 
England hath yet brave hearts that will protect thee. 
But Say will know thee not. Unwinking craft 
Would pore in vain upon thee, altered thus. 
What name hast brought from exile ? Thine own, Cade, 
Would give thee up — so runs our feudal code — 
As bondman unto Say. 

AYLMERE. 

When I left Kent, 
A pallid fugitive, I took the name 
Of Aylmere. After years heard that name shouted 
A war-cry unto thousands ! 
But when I left the trade of blood, and sought 
The gentle fruits of science, I was graced 
With the mind's title of nobility. 
And known as Doctor Aylmere. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 47 

LACY. 

Doctor Aylmere ! 
It passeth wonder ! But thy title here 
Must be plain Master Aylmere ; thou must doff 
The sages sables, and in russet masque, 
To 'scape the vigilant hate of Say. But thine, 
My son, has been a life of marvel. 

AYLMERE. 

Yes, 
Wild and vexed, father, as the mountain stream 
That leaps from peril on to peril, till 
It reach the valley. — Italy became 
My country, when my country cast me forth. 
I joined the arms of those who struck for freedom. 
And won, — for fortune's soldier seldom fails, — 
More than my hopes had spanned. Of this hereafter. 
But thou my father, had 
Betrothed my soul in boyhood, unto Science, 
And, in the 'larumed field, I thought of her, 
Doting on her divinity ; until. 
Weary of war, I sought again the cloister. 

LACY. 

You married. 

AYLMERE. 

In my stormiest hour, yon lady 
Left wealth and wooers nobler far, to share 
My wayward lot. With her and my brave boy — 
Yon parlous prattler, — and the minds of old. 



48 



Whose effluence, breaking through their shattered tortibs, 
Has lit the world again, — I passed my days. 

LACY. 

You were a dweller in a happy clime. 

AYLMERE. 

'Tis free ; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there. 

In that blest land the tiller is a prince. 

No ruffian lord breaks Spring's fair promises ; 

And Summer's toils — for Freedom watches o'er them — 

Are safe and happy ; Summer lapses by, 

In its own music ; 

And pregnant Autumn, with a matron blush. 

Comes stately in, and with her, hand in hand, 

Labour, and lusty Plenty. Then old Winter, 

With his stout glee, his junkets, and a laugh 

That shakes from his hoar beard the icicles. 

Makes the year young again. There are no poor 

Where freedom is ; 

For nature's wealth is affluence for all, 

When high-born robbers seize it not. 

LACY. 

Yet was this Italy a land enslaved. 

AYLMERE. 

Once too, 'twas nobly free. That memory 
Has, from the ashes of a glorious past. 
Flashed its rekindled blaze into the gloom 
Where owl-like error and oppression clung. 
And scared the pestilent spirits forth. 



THE BONDMAN OP KENT. 



49 



To flap their foul wings in the face of day, 
AncT be a laughed-at terror. — She has now 
Sons that ne'er knew a fear, nor felt a shackle. 
Would England were as free ! 



C3 



Most happy there ? 



LACY. 

Of course, you were 



AYLMERE. 

Alas ! 'twas not my country ! 

LACY. 

You thought then of us, wretched as we are ? 

AYLMERE. 

Of my pale mother ; and of thee, my father ; 
And of the glen, in whose o'erarching shade. 
Thou first unchained the eagle thoughts within me ; 
And of my brethren's wrongs, the herded bond, 
The tortured, toil-worn wretches of that land, 
Which is the only father left me ; — all 
Floated before mine eyes, dimming the day, 
And the still night peopling with whispering shadows. 

LACY. 

Now Heaven be praised, thy heart was true. 

AYLMERE. 

One night, 
Racked by these memories, methought a voice 



50 AYLMERE, 

Summoned me from my couch. I rose — went forth. 
The sky seemed a dark gulf, where fiery spirits 
Sported ; for o'er the concave the quick lightning 
Quivered, but spoke not. In the breathless gloom, 
I sought the Coliseum, for I felt 
The spirits of a manlier age were forth ; 
And there against the mossy wall I leaned, 
And thought upon my country. Why was I 
Idle, and she in chains ? The storm now answered. 
It broke as heaven's high masonry were crumbling. 
The beetled walls nodded and frowned i' the glare ; 
And the wide vault, in one unpausing peal. 
Throbbed with the angry pulse of Deity ! 

LACY. 

Shrunk you not, 'mid these terrors ? 

AYLMERE. 

I felt I could amid the hurly laugh. 

And laughing, do such deeds as fireside fools 

Turn pale to think on. 

The heavens did speak like brothers to my soul, 

And not a peal that leapt along the vault 

But had an echo in my heart. — Nor spoke 

The clouds alone ; for o'er the tempest's din, 

I heard the genius of my country shriek 

Amid the ruins, calling on her son — 

On me ! I answered her in shouts, and knelt — 

Ev'n there in darkness, mid the falling ruins, 

Beneath the echoing thunder-trump — and swore, 

(The while my father's pale form, welted with 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 51 

The death-prints of the scourge, stood by and smiled,) 
I swore to make the bondman free ! 



LACY. 

And here, 
I link my soul to thine, and dedicate 
The remnant of the days that Heaven hath spared. 
To make the bondman free I 



AYLMERE. 

I sailed for England. 

LACY. 

Unhappy England ! You beheld her lords 
Rolling in reckless revel, while her people 
Laboured beneath the lash, and mixed their blood 
With the grudged crust that fed them. They may sow, 
And Heaven give increase ; but 'tis not for them ! 
The earth is curst to them, until it opes 
To take their life-w^orn bodies in ! 

AYLMERE. 

Alas! 
Alas ! for England ! 

Her merry yeomen, and her sturdy serfs. 
That made red Agincourt immortal, now 
Are trod like worms into the earth. Each castle 
Is the home of insolent rapine ; and the bond 
Are made the prey of every wolfy lord 
Who wills their blood to lap. The peasant now 



52 A Y L M E R E, 

Weds in grim silence ; kisses his first-born, 
With prayers that it may die ; and tills the glebe, 
Embittering it with tears. Almighty God ! 
Is this my England ? 

LACY. 

In our towns, I trust, 
You saw a happier people. 

AYLMERE. 

No, sir, no ! 
Cities are freedom's nurseries ; but stout London, 
With threescore thousand burghers, bows her down 
Before the hordes brought in by Say and Suffolk, 
In our Queen Margaret's train. I landed there, 
And wept for downfallen London. Well I might ! 
Gladness had faded from her darkened eye ; 
And festal plenty fled to kinder regions. 
Her happy voice was hushed, or only heard 
To shock the desolate silence with a shriek ! 
The wretch who walked her streets, trod as he feared 
A bolder step would rouse a sleeping earthquake. 
Murder was out at midday ; and oppression. 
Like an unsated bloodhound, followed up 
Her faint and feeble people. 

LACY. 

Lawless thus 
Our French Queen's soldiery ? Do not the commons 
Of London rise against them ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 53 

AYLMERE. 

Walking past 
A group of these swilled butchers, I beheld 
A tottering mother, to whose sterile breast 
A famished infant faintly clung. She bent 
Before these ruffian soldiers, and besought, 
With anguished eloquence, a trifling alms. 
Her babe, — she said, — and kissed its clayey cheek, 
And clasped it closer to her milkless breast, — 
Was starving ! They replied with brutal jests, 
And when she bent her faded form, and held 
Her dying infant forth, with wild entreaty, 
They — yet God saw it all, and smote them not ! — 
They thrust their coward weapons in its form, 
And held it struggling on the lifted spear, 
Before her eyes, in murderous mockery ! 
She sunk, and — 



LACY. 

What didst thou ? 

AYLMERE. 

Ha ! what did I ? 
Why on the fiends, with lifted arms, I rushed. 
And — and — but, curses on me ! one escaped ! 
Too much of this, the past and lost ! The future 
Be our care now ; and for the iron wron2:s 
That pierce the gasping heart of our poor England, 
Father, be sure they can and shall be righted. 

5* 



54 AYLMERE, THE BONDMAN OP KENT. 



Still in mine ears doth ring that mother's shriek. 
If I avenge her not — but we will in, 
And counsel on the means. 

LACY. 

I wait upon thee. 

AYLMEEE. 

We'll do 't, and quickly. Freedom ne'er came too soon 
For wrongs like ours. 

IFxeunt. 



END OF ACT FIRST. 



ACT SECOND. 

SCENE FIRST. 

Widow Cade's cottage. Aylmere and Mariamne enter from different sides, 
dressed as rustics. 

AYLMERE. 

Tired of thy truantry ? What dost think now 
Of our green merry England ? 

MARIAMNE. 

The loveliest grove I found, — trellised with flowers, 
And 'neath its trembling shade, the brightest stream, 
Laughing and lapsing by, as did the hours. 
When first thou cam'st a wooing, ere we grew 
Sad of love's gentle troubles. 

AYLMERE. 

Thou must love, 
For that 'tis mine, my England. 

MARIAMNE. 

There I wandered. 
And thought I was again in Italy. 
Mind'st thou the day, when, by the Tiber's side. 
In the cool shade of a mossed ruin, we 
Sat, and thou told'st me of thy native land ? 



56 A Y L M E E E, 

And how I won thee from thy heavy theme ? 
And how — go to ! to thee these are but trifles. 

AYLMERE. 

Not trifles, Mariamne. No ! 
Life's better joys spring up thus by the wayside ; 
And the world calls them trifles. 'Tis not so. 
Heaven is not prodigal, nor pours its joys 
In unregarded torrents upon man ; 
They fall, as fall the riches of the clouds 
Upon the parched earth, gently, drop by drop. 
Nothing is trifling that love consecrates. 

MARIAMNE. 

But thou wert happier in those happy days, 
And gentler too, my Aylmere. 

AYLMERE. 

Gentler, wife ! 
Gentler ! But it may be : and if 'tis so. 
Forgive my spleenful mood ; 'tis o' the times ; 
For stormy thoughts have from my bosom swept 
Each gentleness, like rose leaves, off, and left 
Nought but the bare and angry thorns ; but not, 
My cherished one, foi? thee. 

MARIAMNE. 

I meant not that. 
Forgive me. But, my husband, I must grieve, 
In truth, I must, to see thy peace thus shaded. 
For often, when thou pondere^t, do I mark 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 



67 



Awakened anger's pale insignia hung 
Upon thy knitted brow. 

AYLMERE. 

Well, well, what then ? 
Wrong has been stern, and why should right grow milky ? 

MARIAMNE. 

Alas ! alas ! my lord ! 

AYLMERE. 

Oppression's cloud 
Hath shadowed thus my brow, and sharp-heeled wrong 
So scotched my spirit, that I can no more 
Forbear its writhing. 

MARIAMNE. 

Mine own ! 

AYLMERE. 

Thine, girl ! thine ! 
No ! I am Say's — his bond ! Oh, for the time 
When I may doff this skulking masquerade, 
And be mine own and thine ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Nay, good my husband. 
Fly with me from this place and these wild projects ! 
We'll follow freedom wheresoe'er she bide, 
And make her refuge ours ! 



58 



A Y L M E R E, 



AYLMERE. 

Tins is my home, 
And sliall ere long be freedom's. But, my trembler, 
Ne'er heed, all will be well. 

MARIAMNE. 

In the Avild war. 
Thou and thy friends are kindling, thou wilt rush 
Into the hottest eddy of the fight. 
And sport with peril. 

AYLMEEE. 

Tush ! I would not, doubter. 
But if I did, methinks 'twould harm me not. 
Peril and I have met before ; so long 
We've known and loved each other, by this hand, 
I think he would not harm so old a comrade. 
A truce with this same folly. How dost like 
Thy russet mantua ? It becomes thee well. 

MARIAMNE. 

Trifle not with my fears. I am alone. 
Nor kith, nor country have I, hope nor stay. 
Save thee, my husband. Ponder not so wildly 
On these stern doings ! 

AYLMERE. 

Nay, a thousand wrongs 
Have rung their stern alarum o'er my soul ; 
And it is up, never to sleep again. 
Until those wrongs be righted. Listen, wife. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 59 

MARIAMNE. 

I do, my lord, I do. 

AYLMERE. 

I cannot be 
The meek and gentle thing that thou wouldst have me. 
The wren is happy on its humble spray ; 
But the fierce eagle revels in the storm. 
Terror and tempest darken in his path ; 
He gambols mid the thunder ; mocks the bolt 
That flashes by his red, unshrinking eye. 
And, sternly-joyful, screams amid the din : 
Then shakes the torrent from his vigorous wing. 
And soars above the storm, and looks and laughs 
Down on its struggling terrors. Safety still 
Reward ignoble ease : — be mine the storm. 

MARIAMNE. 

The saints protect thee 1 'Twere delight to share 
A peaceful lot with thee ; but if fate wills 
The storm should gather o'er thee, — be it so. 
By thy dear side I'll think it sunshine, Aylmere ! 

AYLMERE. 

Like to thine own bright self ! And thou'lt be cheerful ? 
Can'st thou be happy, love, so humbly lodged ? 

MARIAMNE. 

Happy, an' I were safe from insult. 



60 A Y L M E E E, 



AYLMEKE. 

Insult ! 



Wife, insult ! 



MARIAMNE. 

Scarce jou left us, ere a lord 
Approached, and spoke that your wife should not hear ; 
Deeming no doubt 'twas honour to a rustic. 
I fled ; when, Heaven be praised, the baron's summons 
Called him away, or he had followed me ! 

AYLMERE. 

More wrong ! more wrong ! was not the measure full ! 
Villain ! but — but — his garb ? his plume ? his crest ? 

MARIAMNE. 

I marked not that, but heard them call him Clifford. 

AYLMERE. 

Down in my heart, that name, down, down. 
Until I wash it in his blood ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Nay, Aylmere, 
Be not thus moved ; forget it, love ! 

AYLMERE. 

Forget it ! 
Oh, I'll forget it ! But no more ; I see 
The father Lacy comes ! speak not of this, 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 61 

But fear not ! I'll be near to watch o'er thee. 

Now, gentlest, there ! {Embrace) away ! 

\^Exit Mariamne. 
[Enter Lacy. Aylmere is turned from him,) 

LACY. 

A goodly day toward, Aylmere ! All goes cheerly. 
Each heart is ripe to bursting with its wrongs. 
Our young cause wears a brow of promise. 

AYLMERE {turning to Lacy). 

Know you 
One CliiFord — a hound in the pack of Say ? 

LACY. 

Why, what of him ? 

AYLMERE. 

A villain ! But ne'er mind — 
Who is he ? And what doth he i' the barony, 
Beating about for game ? 

LACY. 

He is a courtier, 
But late from London, in the train of Say. 
But what is Clifford unto thee ? 

AYLMERE. 

Nought — nought. 
You say the bond are ripe ; how stand the yeomen ? 

6 



62 



AYLMERE, 



LACY. 

Full 

Of moody discontents, resolved, and ready 
To flash forth at a spark. 

AYLMERE. 

And 'tis time, when 
Epicurean power pores o'er the heart. 
To find the tenderest spot for its fell knife. 
Knows the poor wretch a joy ? they find it out 1 
A pride ? they crush it ! Doth he sweat to win 
Some comfort for his cot ? their curse falls on it ! 
Yearneth he o'er some holy sympathy 
For wife or child ? they tear the golden thread 
From out the rugged texture of his fate, 
And leave him desolate. — Doth Mowbray brook 
The ban upon his bridal ? 

LACY. 

He is high 
In wrath, — alas that we should sufier thus ! 

■^^^ AYLMERE. 

'Tis better, being slaves, that we should suffer. 
Men must be thus, by chains and scourges, roused — 
The stealthy wolf will sleep the long days out 
In his green fastness, motionless and dull ; 
But let the hunter's toils entrap and bind him. 
He'll gnaw his chained limbs from his reeking frame. 
And die in freedom. — Left unto their nature. 
Men make slaves of themselves ; and it is only 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 

When the red hand of force is at their throats, . 
Thej know what freedom is. ^ 

LACY. 

They know it now — 
Know it, as well as wrong and shame can teach it. 
Each hath a host of injuries to arm him. 
Courtnay hath left no cot without its wail. 
Nor here alone. All Kent is boiling over 
With its o'ermeasured wrongs ; and all demand 
Thee as their leader. 

AYLMEEE. 

They do know me not 
As Cade ? The time will come when I, as Cade, 
The bond, the fugitive, will claim my name, 
And wed it unto honour. But, good Lacy, 
Let none, not even the staunchest, know me now 
As aught but Aylmere — as the stranger yeoman — 
The champion of the bond. 

LACY. 

Fear not ; ten years 
In a far clime have worked such change in thee. 
Nor bond, nor yeomen see the stripling Cade 
In the grave Aylmere. 

AYLMERE. 

Have you fixed a place 
Of meeting, where swollen heart may speak to heart, 
And kindle into action ? 



63 



^4 AYLMERE, 



LACY. 

The resolved 
Will meet at Worthy's cot. 

AYLMERE. 

'Tis well, good father; 
Until which time, let us from cot to cot, 
And pour the fury of each single heart 
Into the general torrent. Tell them, father, 
That we cannot fail ! 

The right is with us, God is with the right, 
And victory with God ! 

[^Exeunt severally. 



SCENE SECOND. 
Widow Cade aiid Mariamne, with the Boy. 

WIDOW CADE. 

And so he won thee from thy sunny land ? 

MABIAMNE. 

Yes ! Aylmere panted for his native air ; 

His feet were weary of a foreign soil, 

And his ear ached to hear old England's breezes 

Rustling amid her oaks. 'Twere better far, 

He said, to mingle with his native soil, 

Than rust away a slumb'rous life in exile. 

WIDOW. 

Our prattler loves not England, for the people 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 65 

Are here not merry as in Italy ; 

But pale and sad, and sing not when they toil. 

MARIAMNE. 

Alas ! my boy, this is thy father's grief ; 
But go, and aid thy grandam. 

\_Exeunt Widow Cade and Boy. 
Where is Aylmere ! 
Would he were here ! I grow of late sick-hearted, 
And tremble with a wild and shadowy fear 
Of — what I know not — when he is not by. 
{Enter Clifford.) 

Lord Clifford here ! My fears were winged from Heaven. 
Alas ! what shall I do ! 

CLIFFORD {adjusting his dress). 

Beshrew this doublet ! 
It is all awry. — Good morrow to your beauty ! 
Well met ! But why, my little lapwing, fled you 
When last I saw you ? 

MARIAMNE {with a rustic air). 

Saving your presence, sir, 
(Pray Heaven my language not betray my husband !) 
Wi' your leave. {Going.) 

CLIFFORD {intercepting her). 

Nay, you leave me not, my Daphne. 
There's not i' the manor maid so fair as thou — 
I've seen 'em all — and, by this light, I love thee. 

{She is silent.) 
6* 



66 



What ! art not proud of a lord's love ! no word ? 
Why, wench, art sullen ? Is thy flax entangled ? 
What hap has rufiled thee ? Sweet girl, art dumb ? 

MARIAMNE. 

Let me away, sir. 

CLIFFORD. 

This is rare, I trow ! 
By your leave, girl, this is a fair, soft hand. 
Nay, be not froward. Be your lips as soft ? 

[Atteiyipting to kiss her.) 
MARIAMNE. 

Back, base lord ! Get thee gone ! Pass on thy way ! 
This humble door is marked, as were the cots 
Of God's crushed people ; and the curse of lust, 
Hath here no power. Pass on in thy base hunt ! 
Here thou'lt find pride even prouder than thine own, 
And scorn to which thy scorn is lowliness ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Have I been dreaming ! Cry you mercy, lady ! 
An' if thy garb belied thee 'tis no fault 
Of mine ; I chose it not. Forgive my rudeness ; 
But in all humbleness, whom speak I to ? 

MARIAMNE. 

A woman ! By that name entitled to 

Each true man's courtesy. Thy mother bore it. 

And scorning it, thou dost a wrong to her. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 67 

CLIFFORD. 

If in thj cloud I thought thee bright, forgive me, 
That now, thou shin'st undimmed — I worship thee ; 
A saucy wooer, thou'lt love me not the less. 

{^Enter Aylmere, unseen — draivs his knife.) 
AYLMERE (aside). 

My dainty lord is here ! Pity to trouble 
His lordship at his pleasures ! 

MARIAMNE. 

I'll not hear thee. 

CLIFFORD. 

Now, by this fair hand (seizing it). Why dost struggle, love ? 

MARIAMNE. 

Monster ! thou durst not : off ! mine eyes alone 
Will with their lightnings blast thee, if thou lay'st 
An impious hand upon me. Aylmere ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Why, 
Thine eyes, I own, are bright; but I am not 
Frighted by lightning. Come, what hast to fear ? 

(Clifford struggling with Mariamne, loho shrieks. Aylmere rushes for- 
ward, seizes Clifford.) 

AYLMERE. 

Unmannered lord ! Tremble not, Mariamne ! 
I'm with thee, sweet ; and thou art safe, love, safe ! 



68 



{Turns to Clifford j^erceZy and laughs.) 

This is a noble death ! The bold Lord Clifford, 
Stabbed by a peasant, for no braver feat, 
Than toying with his wife ! Is 't not, my lord, 
A merry jest ? 

CLIFFORD. 

Thou wilt not slay me, fellow ? 

AYLMERE. 

Ay, marry will I ! And why should I not ? 

CLIFFORD. 

Thou durst not, carle. 

AYLMERE [raising his knife.) 

Durst not ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Nay, Aylmere, strike not ! 
Lay not the weight of blood upon my memory, 
Shed for mine honour ! 

AYLMERE. 

Wife ! Has he not flung 
A shame on thee and me ? And shall he live ? 

CLIFFORD. 

Strike, if it be your will. I did the wrong. 
And may, when tempted, do as much again. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 69 

AYLMERE {raises his knife). 

Dost inock me ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Aylmere, an' thou lov'st me, hold I 
Be there no blood betwixt our loves, my husband, 
Or I will never sleep again, unscared 
By dreams of horror ! 

AYLMERE. 

Well ; be 't as you will. — 
Good Heaven, that such a worm, so abject, vile, 
Should eat into the root of royalty. 
And topple down whole centuries of empire ! 
I will not crush you, reptile, now : but mark me ! 
j Steel knows no heraldry, and stoutly urged, 
\ Visits the heart of a peer with no more grace 
Than it would pierce a peasant's. Have a care ! 
The eagle that would seize the poor man's lamb. 
Must dread the poor man's vengeance ; darts there are, 
Can reach you in your eyrie ; ay, and hands 
That will not grieve to hurl them. Get thee gone ! 

{Hurls him from him.) 
CLIFFORD. 

Sirrah, we're equal now — shame against shame. 
When we next meet, a new compt we will open. 

[Clifford exit. Aylmere sits moodily. 

MARIAMNE. 

Nay, do not press thy brow upon thy hand. 



70 



Heed not the reveller. Now that I am with thee, 
I care not for this wrong : the hound that bays 
The moon dims not her face, and such as he 
Can bring to innocence no shame. 

AYLMERE. 

No shame ! 
To be the sport of every goatish lordling, 
As thou wert shame's own minion — thou, mine own, 
My spotless one ! Now will this boaster go, 
And, o'er his cups, will tell his leering lords. 
How fair the dame he clasped — how sweet her lips — 

MARIAMNE. 

My lips are virgin — the wretch stained them not ! 

AYLMERE. 

May his hot bones rot in his cankered flesh ! 
And yet I slew him not ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Why shouldst thou stain thee 
With his licentious blood. It would but bring 
New wrongs on thee and me. 

AYLMERE. 

As 'tis thy pleasure, 
'Tis well — very well ! But get thee in. 

MARIAMNE [going, lingers, returns). 

Thou'rt not in anger with me ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 71 

AYLMERE. 

With thee, love ! 
Why was I ever ? {Embrace) Nay, girl, get thee in. 

[^Exit Mariamne. 
AYLMERE (solus). 

And yet I slew him not ! But — but, 'twill come ! 

It heaps my shame to heighten my revenge ; 

And I will feast it fully. Would 'twere here. 

Here now ! Oh, my arm aches, and every pulse 

Frets like a war-horse on the curb, to strike 

These bold man-haters down. 'Twill come, 'twill come ! 

And I will quench this fire in a revenge 

Deep as our suflferings, sweeping as their wrongs ! 

[Exit. 



SCENE THIRD. 

The Castle. Lord Say at a table. Courtnay w waiting. 

SAY. 
Sirrah, no more. Did I not say that thou 
Shouldst have the wench ? And yet methinks, it is 
But splenetic envy of this fire-brained Mowbray : 
Thou lovest her not. 

COURTNAY. 

My lord, I love not Mowbray ; 
He follows the crazed priest whom they call prophet- 
The mendicant Friar Lacy ; and is leagued 



72 AYLMEKE, 

With the faction o' the commons — those who speak 
So scurvily of your lordship. 

SAY. 
Have your wish. 
I'd force this blacksmith knave give up his daughter, 
If but to teach him that he is my thrall, 
Even yeoman though he be. But how is this ? 
The barony holds another sturdy grumbler — 
They must be weeded out — the stranger, dwelling 
At th' house of Widow Cade. What call they him ? 

COURTNAY. 

Aylmere, so please you. 'Tis a bold, strange man ; 
And in his breeding loftier than a peasant. 
He hath great sway with the people. 

SAY. 

Well, sir, pray, 
Are there no serving-men to seize such rogues ? 
No vaults in our keep to hold them ? 

[Enter eLiFroRD.) 

Good den, cousin ! 
{To Courtnay.) Without ! {Exit Courtnmj.) Ay, get thee gone, 

thou truest hound, 
That power at weakness ere let slip. {To Clifford.) How now? 
Feather-witted coz, a wrinkle ! What's befallen ? 
Thy horse ? or hound ? or hawk ? 

CLIFFORD. 

A truce, my lord ! 
I'd have you know there is a devil unchained 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 73 

In this your barony ; and there is brewing 
That which will raise such hurly round your ears 
As England ne'er yet knew. 

SAY. 

Speak you of Aylmere ? 

CLIFFORD. 

Of the same, my lord. 

SAY. 

Thou harp'st my fears ; but, Clifford, 
What knowest thou of him ? 

CLIFFORD. 

Know ! the knave, but now. 
Had his knife at my throat, and would have slain me 
But for his wife. He has that in him. Say, 
Will breed you griefs. The flash of such an eye. 
Broke never from a bondman's heart. Be sure 
He is not what he seems. And when I left him. 
He hurled a scornful menace after me 
That spoke of trouble. 



SAY. 

Yet, you'd have me pet 
And palter with these ruffians. We must crush them. 
A moody spirit doth possess the rout, 
And every wind is murmur laden. 

7 



ft 



74 AYLMERE, 

CLIFFORD. 

True, 
And there is danger in it. Should not Aylmere 
Be first looked to ? 

SAY. 

0' the instant. Ho ! who waits ! 

[Enter Courtnay.) 

Have Aylmere, ere an hour, within the castle. 
Take a sufficient force. 

COURTNAY. 

It shall be done. 

SAY. 

And, look ye, steward, that mangy hag. Cade's widow, 

Expel her from the cot, and burn it, burn it ! 

Let her beg, starve, or leave the barony ! 

For years my plague ! The wife of one sour slave, 

Who struck me and died for 't, and the mother 

Of a rough boy, who left a second shame 

Upon my person, and escaped the barony 

Ere my wrath reached him. Courtnay, leave it ashes ! 

COURTNAY. 

It is a task I have good stomach for. 

[^Exit Courtnay. 

SAY. 

Thus will I crush the mad and moody slaves ! 
They'd better bow, and line their chains with down, 
Than vainly struggling, dye them in their blood. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 
CLIFFORD. 

Seize thou the husband — I will take the wife ; 
My yeoman stout — our new accompt is opened ! 



76 



lUxeunt. 



SCENE FOURTH. 

Worthy's cot. Worthy, Mowbray, Kate. 

KATE. 

Nay, Will, content thee. I will never wed 
The cringing steward. Women love no slaves, 
Except their own. 

MOWBRAY. 
Our tyrant Say hath sworn 
That if you wed not with his creature Courtnay, 
He'll— 

KATE. 

Tush ! I care not for him. Why should I ? 
These lords are no lords of a woman's will. 
My father, thou, and Aylmere, with the commons. 
Can shield me. 

MOWBRAY. 

Right, brave Kate ! why let them come ; 
We'll entertain 'em in the good old style, 
With the best edge of a stout yeoman's sword. 



76 



WORTHY. 

Threescore tall men have I, whom Courtnay's knaves 
Must hammer till they're cold as is my anvil, 
Ere he shall touch her. {A knocking. ) 

Ha ! it is the signal. 

KATE. 

Will, here is work that needs no woman's presence ; 
Stand to it, Will ; strike for the bond and me ! 

MOWBllAY. 

Will I not, my Kate ? 



-^Exit Kate. 



WORTHY. 

Ho ! whom hold you with ? 

i^From loithout.) 

With Kent and the true commons. 

WORTHY. 

{Oj)ens the door.) God be wi' you ! 

[Enter Lacy, Straw, Pembroke, Sutton, and others.) 
LACY. 

Blessings, my children, on your cause and you ! 
Pembroke, how fare your children ? 

PEMBROKE. 

As the lamp 
That dies for want of feeding ; they still flicker, 
But I can only say they live. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 77 

LACY {to Straw). 
How is it with your wife ? But ill, I fear me, 
From the cloud upon your brow. 

STKAW. 

No, well, father. 

LACY. 

Your wife is then — 

STRAW. 

Beyond the whip and chain ! 
She's in her grave. 

WORTHY. 

Dead ! dead ! 

LACY. 

Heaven rest her soul ! 

WORTHY. 

And crush the lords who curse and cumber England ! 

LACY. 

Heaven, son, hath sent a champion and deliverer 
Unto the poor. 

WORTHY. 

<r Whom mean you ? 

LACY. 

Master Aylmere. 
7* 



/8 AYLMERE, 

STRAW. 

Know you Lord Say hath ordered he be taken 
And thrown i' the castle dungeon ? 

LACY. 

Men of Kent, 
Shall this thing be ; and he whom Heaven hath sent 
To strike your chains off, be torn from you thus ? 



Fear not, father. 



WORTHY. 
MOWBRAY. 

They'll tear our hearts out first ! 

STRAW. 

We all have lives which Say has made a burden — 
To throw away for Aylmere. 

WORTHY. 

Where is Aylmere ? 

[Enter Aylmere.) 
AYLMERE. 

Here, Master Worthy. A brave morning, masters. 
The sun hath not yet learned to frown upon 
The poor. Friend Wat, hast yet given up thy daughter, 
At thy lord's bidding, to his lacquey ? 

WORTHY. 

Have not. 
And will not. I will grind this steward's pate 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 79 

Between my sledge and anvil, ere I yield 

My free child up, a slave and a slave's wanton. 

AYLMERE. 

Good morrow, Mowbray. Now what sayest thou to this ? 
They say thou'rt hot — they do thee wrong, for thou 
Art meek as storm-bowed lilies : thou wilt give 
Thy young bride humbly up to my lord's minion ? 

MOWBRAY. 

I'll dig his title — were it signed by Say — 
A thousand Says — out of his rotten heart, 
Ere he shall look upon her. But thou mock'st me. 

AYLMERE. 

Sutton, has the kind lord forgiven the wrong 

Thou didst his lordship's hound ? What, spurn the hound 

Of thy liege lord ! Irreverend man ! Why, if 

Such crimes should go unwhipped, it will anon 

Be thought a poor man's child is nigh as noble 

As a rich man's cur. Heaven shield his lordship's hound ! 

SUTTON. 

He threats me with the stocks. 

AYLMERE. 

The stocks, old man ! 
Thy hair's grown white, and thy limbs shrivelled, fighting 
And toiling for this man ! The stocks ! Well, well ; 
'Tis vain to chafe. How bravely will this frame, 
Honoured by time, adorn the felon's seat ! 



80 A Y L M E R E, 

SUTTON. 

I trust that he will do me no such wrong. 

AYLMERE. 

Oh no, old man, he cannot do a wrong ! 

I cry you mercy ! Speak you, sh-s, of him 

Who hath o'errun your fields, outraged your daughters, 

And made your sons, ay, and yourselves, the playthings 

Of his tiger hours. Wrong ! Oh no, this sweet lord 

Would do no wrong ! I marvel we should fear it. 

What sayest thou, good man ? {To Straw.) I could weep for 

thee. 
And thy wife murdered, save that tears kill not. 

STRAW {lays his hand upon his knife). 

The tears shed for her shall be red and heart-drawn ! 

AYLMERE. 

Wrong said'st thou ! Why go to ! thou know'st there's 

shame 
On every honest brow, and grief in every honest heart 
In Kent. We toil to feed their lusts ; we bleed 
To back their quarrels ; coin our sweat and blood 
To feed their wassail, and maintain their pomp 1 
And they — kind, gentle, gentle lords — in payment, 
Plunder our dwellings, spurn us as their dogs, 
Stain those we love, and mock at our afiliction ! 
And so they should ! for we can, like whipped curs, 
Lick every ulcer in these tyrants' hearts, 
And ring our chains to lull their roused suspicions ! 
Now sleep ye well, ye men of Kent, on this ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 81 

WORTHY. 

Can this be manlj ? 

MOWBRAY. 

Are we men who brook it ? 

AYLMERE. 

For, men and brethren, God ne'er made a bondman. 
Ne'er made one man to be his fellow's victim ; 
Ne'er curst the earth that its fair breast should yield 
Unto the proud lord milk, but, to the peasant, 
Nothing but poison. 



LACY. 

Heaven, not Aylmere, speaks ! 

WORTHY. 

What should we do ? 

MOWBRAY. 

Tell us what we shall do. 

AYLMERE. 

Do ! Listen, Heaven ! — Do ! — wear a loyal smile, 
And bow your heads, and bare you to the scourge ; 
And, on your supple knees, down, down, and pray, 
For those who smite you ! Do ! — Bear they a charter 
From the highest, — 

To make His earth a hell for us to howl in ? 
Or are these proud and pampered minions Gods, 
And we but dogs, and made to fawn and suffer ? 



82 



Are your arms sinewless, or your hearts craven ? 
What should ye do ! — What would ye, twined a serpent 
Its slimy volumes round you ? Cog ? Caress ? 
And stand to think and tremble ? No, you'd dash 
The reptile to the earth, and trample on, 
And crush it ! 

WOKTHY. 

But if we rise, what should be our demands ? 
What seek you ? 

^^^- AYLMERE. 

God's first gift — the blessed spirit 
Which he breathed o'er the earth. 
'Tis that which nerves the weak and stirs the strong ; 
Which makes the peasant's heart beat quick and high, 
When on his hill he meets the uprising sun. 
Throwing his glad beams o'er the freeman's cot. 
And shouts his proud soul forth — 'tis Liberty ! 
We w^ill demand 

All that just nature gave and they have taken : 
Freedom for the bond ! and justice in the sharing 
Of the soil given by heaven to all ; the right 
To worship without bribing a base priest 
For entrance into heaven ; and all that makes 
The poor man rich in Liberty and Hope ! 



WORTHY. 

They will not grant all this. 

AYLMERE. 

They shall, 
If we are true unto ourselves ! But if 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 

We rend a single link, we are rewarded. 
Freedom's a good the smallest share of which 
Is worth a life to win. Its feeblest smile 
Will break our outer gloom, and cheer us on 
To all our birthright. Liberty ! its beam 
Aslant and far, will lift the slave's wan brow, 
And light it up, as the sun lights the dawn. 

MOWBRAY. 

At once proclaim freedom unto the bond — 
To all men. Liberty ! 

AYLMERE. 

Think not she's won 
With gentle smiles, and yielding blandishments : 
She spurns your dainty wooer ; 
And turns to sinewy arms and hearts of steel. 
The war-cloud is her couch ; her matin hymn 
The battle-shout of freemen. 

(A loio knocki7ig.) 
SUTTON. 

Hist ! Didst not hear a noise ? 

WORTHY. 

Are we surprised? 

[A louder knocking.) 
AYLMERE. 

Open the door : if it be unto death, 

Why let death enter : the crushed bondman knows 

No better friend ! 



83 



84 AYLMERE, 

MARIAMNE {without). 

If you be Christians, shelter for my child ! 

AYLMERE. 
Just heaven ! it cannot be ! {Rushes forward.) 

(Worthy has opened the door. Mariamne staggers in, pah and dishevelled, 
bearing her child. She totters into the arms o/Aylmere.) 

MARIAMNE. 

My Aylmere, save us ! save thy child ! Oh heaven ! 

AYLMERE. 

Thou art not hurt ? Thou'rt well ? Some water, friends. 
Our boy — no harm hath reached him ? Look up, love ! 
Thou art with friends ; it is thy Aylmere holds thee ! 
Heaven, what new horror's here ? 

MOWBRAY. 

She rallies 

AYLMERE. 

Fear not ; 
All's well now, Mariamne. 

MARIAMNE. 

Where am I ? 

Where is my child ? {Sees and clasps him.) My husband ? {Looks 
wildly.) 

AYLMERE. 

Mariamne ! 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 86 

MARIAMNE. 

Oh, Heaven ! I thank thee ! Clasp me closer, Aylmere ! 
I fear 'tis but a dream ! 

AYLMERE. 

What's the last crime ? 
Why flee the cot ? Speak, for my heart is gasping 
With a strange terror. 

MARIAMNE. 

I know not. — How's this, — 
My brain is 'wildered. Let me think. Yes, now. 

It rushes on me ! (Shudders.) 

AYLMERE. 

Speak ! 

MARIAMNE. 

I cannot ! 

AYLMERE. 

Speak, 
Speak, or I will go mad. 

MARIAMNE. 

Scarce had you left us, 
Ere Say sent men to take you to the castle. 
Finding you not, they went ; but soon returned, 
Led on by Say, drunken with pride and choler. 
I, with our boy, fled to a near concealment. 
And from my covert saw it, heard it all. 

8 



86 AYLMERE, 

AYLMERE. 

What saw you ? 

MARIAMNE. 

In his rage, he fired the house. 
Dame Cade, affrighted, knelt to Say for mercy. 
He thundered, " Where is Aylmere ?" But she knew not, 
" Thou lying hag ! speak out, or I will slay thee. 
And leave thy withered form to feed the flames." 

AYLMERE. 

Oh, monster ! 

MARIAMNE. 

She cried " Mercy ! All are gone — 
Husband and son — add not another victim ! 
Spare me !" — In darker wrath, the savage raised 
His arm, and, even as the Widow knelt, 
He struck her down ! 

AYLMERE. 

Oh, horror ! struck her down ! 
May every curse that hell's black confines know 
Cling to and fester in him ! 

MARIAMNE. 

The eddying smoke 
Now drove them forth. A moment — and the flame 
Flashed like an angry spirit through the cot. 
Throwing a pale glare o'er her prostrate form. 
From her crushed brow the blood streamed o'er the floor, 
And was, by the thirsty fire, licked up. The flames 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 87 

Lashed her again to life. She started up, 
And her wild shriek — oh God, I hear it now ! 

LACY. 

Naj, start not thus ; 'tis but thy o'erwrought fancy. 

AYLMERE. 

Furies lash him an outcast through the world ! 
When he would sleep, that shriek be in his ears ! 
When he would drink, her blood be in his cup ! 
The earth deny its food, the heaven its light. 
And even the grave a refuge ! But — say on. 

MARIAMNE. 

Her face was dyed in gore, and her white hair 
Streamed wildly round her. She rushed to the door — 
'Twas barred ; the window — there she met the spears 
Of the retainers. In despair she knelt 
'Neath a red canopy of curtained flames, 
She knelt — 

AYLMERE. 

And they relented ? 

MARIAMNE. 

Laughed and hooted ! 
The hot blast smote her ; she arose and raised 
Her hands to Heaven; she reeled — she shrieked — she 
fell! 

(Mariamne sinks back.) 
AYLMERE. 

May his soul rot to shame! his brow become 



88 AYLMERE, THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 

Leprous and lazar-like, till guilt itself 
Shrink from him ! Palsies smite him ! — smite him ! — 
This is too much — too much ; but I'll not weep. 
For that she sheltered one who loved the bond, 
Thus hath she perished. Men of Kent — 

WORTHY. 

Do with us, 
Even as you will, for life and death. 

AYLMERE. 

Kneel then ! 

Is my oath yours ? {They kneel.) 

ALL. 

We swear ! 

AYLMERE. 

Then witness, Heaven ! 
The orphan, whose sole heritage hath been 
Blood, bonds, and shame, here swears to be avenged ! 
To follow Say as shades pursue the night. 
Steady as conscience on his bloody track, 
Certain as death ! 

The mountain shall not shield, the cavern hide, 
The grave itself protect him ! From his shroud 
I'll drag him reeking forth, tear out his heart, 
His false, foul heart, and trample, trample on it ! 

{Staggers and falls into their arms.) 
[Curtain falls.) 

END OF ACT SECOND. 



ACT THIRD. 

SCENE FIRST. 
A room in the castle. Say, BucKiNaHAM, Clifford, Courtnay. 

SAY. 
See they are watched ; and if the villains murmur, 
Even if it be in whispers to the night-wind, 
They shall — or priest or peasant — hang like dogs. 

\_Exit Courtnay. 
Vile scraps from Nature's table ! fragments cast 
Upon life's dunghill ! yet they prate — they prate ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Why you're turned railer. Know you, Say, 'tis whispered 

Their leader, Aylmere, is Lord Mortimer ? 

Start not ! — all Kent believes it. But what then ? 

What if the true king do strike for his right ? 

The times are growing rusty ; here's a danger 

Will rub them into brightness. Plague upon 

The days that rot from their own stillness ! 

SAY. 

What! 
Lord Mortimer ! It is believed he lives ; 
If it be he, why woe to our King Henry ! 

8* 



90 AYLMEEE, 

BUCKINGHAM. 

Aylmere is of his aspect. And why comes he 
Thus darkly into Kent ? And why, though gentle, 
Herds he but with the bond ? 

CLIFFORD. 

For 'tis his humour. 
Tush ! Turn ye pale at this — at dreams and guesses ? 

SAY. 

There's danger in it. 

CLIFFORD. 

Where there is no fear 
There is no peril. Save Heaven, there reigns 
But one omnipotence — 'tis courage. 

SAY. 

Would 
That we had seized and sent him bound to London ! 
He's fled to the forest ; we will yet secure him. 
There he must famish or surrender to us. 
As to these plotting serfs — why let 'em plot ! 
The people's anger ! — Tell it to the waves. 
Which, like the mob, beneath the tempest's lash, 
Will writhe and rage awhile, but meet the calm 
With meek and mirrored smile. 

CLIFFORD. 

Hunt you to-day ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 91 

SAY. 

Ay, and we will to horse. — If other game 
We start not, we will beat the forest thorough. 
For this same masquer, Mortimer. Have with you. 

\_Exeunt. 



SCENE SECOND. 

The blacksmith^ s shop of Worthy. Worthy discovered at the forge. 
Enter Kate. 

KATE. 

My father, thou hast toiled enow this day ; 

Give o'er ; let forge and hammer rest ; and come 

With me to our cottage. Mowbray will anon — 

WORTHY. 

He's here even now ; and with him Father Lacy, 
Pembroke, and Straw, and Sutton. 

KATE. 

I will wait 
For thee ; thou'lt come ? {Exit Kate.) 

WORTHY. 

Anon — 
[Enter Lacy, Mowbray, Pembroke, Straw, Sutton.) 
Good morrow, masters. 

STRAW. 

Still at work, man ! What's here ? 



WOKTHY. 

A work of love. 
They're spear-heads, for the hearts of our oppressors. 

LACY. 

Have care yo.ur toils betray us not. My brethren, 
I come from Essex. 

WORTHY. 

How stands Essex ? 

LACY. 

Keady, 
With twoscore thousand men, well mettled for 
The cause. — What have ye ? 

WORTHY. 

I, five hundred. 

MOWBRAY. 

I, 

Nine ; by the mass, true men as e'er gave buffets ! 

STRAW. 

I count two hundred, but they're men whom wrong 
Hath made in love with death. 

LACY. 

And Pembroke, thou ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 



Three hundred. 



PEMBROKE. 



LACY. 
Good ; and thou ? {To Sutton.) 

SUTTON. 

You have my prayers. 

LACY. 

Swords now are mightier. 

SUTTON. 

Tie time hath been — but now I must be heedful — 

I'm all too aged for the brunt of war. 

And thou {to Worthy) methinks shouldst give way to the 

youthful. 
Men, when the taper quivers in the socket, 
Place it not in the blast, but shield it from 
Each rude and boist'rous breath, and let it sink 
Unmoved and gently down. Now, we are aged : 
How couldst thou bide the battle-storm ? 

WORTHY. 

Why, bravely. 
Thou'dst have me creep into my ingle-side. 
And prate of thus I was^ and so I did. 
To asthma' d grandams and to gaping children, 
Sneaking into old age at hale threescore ! 
Beshrew my heart ! I am not yet so useless. 
When Kent is in the field, were I not there. 



94 A Y L M E R E, 

And with the foremost, I would burn with blushing. 
What, Sutton, turn'st thou craven ? 

SUTTON. 

Thy reproof 
Is rough as thine own file. 

WORTHY. 

And if there be 
Good mettle in thee, thou'lt be brighter for it. 

LACY. 

O'ermuch of this. How stand our other musters ? 

WORTHY. 

All now are full. Kent is prepared to rise. 

MOWBRAY. 

But Aylmere hath not, since the Widow Cade 
Was murdered, been amongst us. 

WORTHY. 

How his heart 
Swells for the wretched ! That pale widow's death — 
A stranger to him — save he made her cot 
A time his home — hath moved him nigh to madness. 

MOWBRAY. 

A noble heart ! where is our leader, father ? 

LACY. 

Upon the heels of that affliction, came 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 

Outlawry ; and his head is now the wolf's, 
Which any serf may take. 

MOWBKAY. 

Where has he fled ? 

LACY. 

I took him, with his pale wife and his child, 
That sickened by the way, unto a cave 
Far hid i' the forest. There, alas ! I left them. 
God wot how fare they. 

WORTHY. 

Bore they with them food ? 



LACY. 

We fled hot-foot, and not a morsel with us. 



WORTHY. 

Then will they perish, and the commons lose 
Their leader ; for Say's creatures guard the forest 
On this side ; and the neighbouring barony 
Is churlish and will render no relief. 
Pray heaven they starve not ! 

LACY. 

He may reach the town. 

WORTHY. 

But find no aid. These burghers own no God 

But Mammon. They would count the joys of heaven 

By cent per cent. Were heart-drops gold, 



95 



96 AYLMERE, 

And could they, from their mother's breast press out, 
By some dread grief another golden gout, 
They'd fling that grief upon her, and rejoice. 
If they but won a doit. No aid from them ! 

LACY. 

Heaven be with Aylmere then. My heart bleeds for him. 

MOWBRAY. 
Father, strange sayings stir the barony. 
'Tis whispered that the gracious Mortimer, 
Poor England's rightful king, not only lives. 
But is the commons' friend ; and, to be plain, 
That our loved Aylmere, is none other than 
Lord Mortimer. 

LACY. 

Is it so spoken, son ? 

MOWBRAY. 

And is at large believed. 

LACY. 

I'll think of this. 

WORTHY. 

If he be Mortimer, all England will 
Proclaim him king o' the commons. 

(A shriek. Enter Kate.) 

KATE. 

Mowbray ! father ! {Rushes to Wobthy.) 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 97 

WORTHY. 

Who hath thus frighted thee ? 

KATE. 

Courtnaj — 

MOWBRAY. 

The hound ! where is he ? 

KATE. 

Flushed with wine, 
He hath — he's here ! Protect me ! 

[Enter Courtnay.) 
COURTNAY. 

Stay, girl — ho ! 
I've fallen among the plotters ! Spear-heads too ! 
Well, well ! But, Kate, think not I heed these knaves. 
I love thee, by this light ! I'll not be foiled ! 
I'll have my sport ! 

WORTHY. 

Just heaven ! must we bear this I 

MOWBRAY (^0 Worthy). 
Give way ! I'll slay him ! 

LACY. 

Be not rash. 

WORTHY. 

Back, Mowbray ! 
I yet am her protector ! 



98 



AYLMERE, 



COURTNAY. 

Here's a coil ! 
I have Say's leave, and care not. {About to seize her.) 

WORTHY. 

Toucli her not ! 
Or, spite of every lord in Kent, I'll brain thee ! 

COURTNAY. 

Come, Kate ; we will be merry. 

WORTHY {seizes Ms hammer). 

Back ! once more ! 

COURTNAY. 

I am the steward. I care not for carles. 
I love thee, and will clasp thee. 

{Attempts to embrace her, she breaks from him and retreats behind the 
loings. Worthy rushes after them.) 

WORTHY. 

Villain ! — slave ! — dog ! {A struggling.) Thus, in God's name, 

and thus, 
Do I maintain the right. Die, ribald, die ! (Kate shrieks.) 

(Worthy re-enters, bearing his hammer, which is bloody. 
Kate clings to him in terror.) 

LACY. 

What hast thou done ? 

WORTHY. 

What I would do again ! 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 99 

MOWBRAY. 
And I ! 

STRAW. 

And I! 

PEMBROKE. 

And any man ! 

WORTHY. 

By Heaven, 
Were he our king I'd slay him ; ay, and love 
The weapon smote him ! 

LACY. 

Thou hast burst our plot. 
The veil is rent ; and you must now throw by 
All save your swords. 

MOWBRAY. 

Our swords are ready, father ! 

PEMBROKE. 

We must away, or Say will be upon us. 

WORTHY. 

To Seven-oak then, at dawn ! 

LACY. 

So be it ! Let 
The word be passed at once. And, Mowbray, thou 



100 A Y L M E R E, 

And Straw, with a true band, seek Aylmere's refuge, 
And guard him to our meeting. Bear food with you. 

STRAW. 

We'll instant to our errand. 

LACY. 

Dawn, remember ! 
Then with the sun, will Liberty arise 
From the long night of wrong ; and the crushed spirit 
Will soar, as does the lark, to meet its light ! 
Away ! There's much before us. 

\_Exeunt. 



SCENE THIRD. 

The forest. Enter Clifford, Buckingham, and hunting train. 
BUCKINGHAM. 

You rave ! I deem not Lady Clare so lovely. 

CLIFFORD. 

Lovely as Venus was when in her teens ! 
The court owns no such beauty. Why she is 
Both bud and bloom ; the gentleness of dawn, 
And the fierce fire of day ! With coy fifteen. 
She joins the richer sweets of ripened love. 

BUCKINGHAM. 

Ripe ere her time ! Thus vice will give 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 101 

A pale maturity to cankered youth ; 
As worms in apples flush the hectic rind 
With sickly ripeness, while they rot the core. 

CLIFFOED. 

Nay, spare your homily. Where loiters Say ? 

BUCKINGHAM. 

I saw him when the stag broke from its covert, 
Headmost and headlong, doubtless led away 
In the hot hunt. 

CLIFFORD. 

But not, I trust, alone ? 
Some of these sullen serfs would send a shaft 
As willing to his side, as ere a deer 
In the king's forest. 

BUCKINGHAM. 

He was then alone. 

CLIFFORD. 

Masters, away ! and search the forest thickets. 
There's mischief in the bond ; and 'tis not safe 
That he should go unguarded. Come, my lord. 

\_Exeunt. 



9^ 



102 AYLMERE, 



SCENE FOURTH. 

A cave in the forest. Mariamne. The child on a rude pallet, asleep. 
MARIAMNE. 

Sleep hath fallen on him ; yet it comes like night 

Upon a tortured sea — his limbs still toss, 

And his wan brow is wrung w^ith agony. 

God be with thee, my babe ! Would I might feed thee, 

Famished one, on my heart ! But soft — he stirs ! 

Strange, Aylmere comes not. Images of gloom 

Throng o'er my soul, like birds of evil omen, 

Waked by the night's low voice ! He may be taken, — 

Dragged to the castle ! — Hist ! the branches rustle. 

And the dry twigs are crushed as by a foot. 

Am I discovered ? Heaven protect me ! — Yet 

It may be Aylmere — now 'tis nearer ! — nearer ! 

Ha ! my husband ! 

(Enter Aylmere. A smothered burst of feeling. They embrace.) 

Hist, our poor boy is sleeping ! 

AYLMERE. 

Alas ! thy cheek's e'en paler than it was ! 

MARIAMNE. 

And thou art faint and worn, and on thy brow 
How the chill dew has gathered ! 

AYLMERE. 

I've been far, 
And have much suffered. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 103 

MARIAMNE. 

Thou hast brought us food ? 

AYLMERE. 

My path has been beset by Say's retainers. 
Each cot is guarded. 

MARIAMNE. 

Sought you not the town ? 



AYLMERE. 



And reached it. 



MARIAMNE. 

And they gave thee food ? 

AYLMERE. 

Alas! 

MARIAMNE. 

Our boy is starving. 

AYLMERE. 

I begged, till my brow 
Blackened with blushes, and my thick tongue faltered. 
None would relieve ! The pitying poor dare not 
From dread of Say ; the rocky-hearted rich 
List to my plaint of agony with sneers. 

MARIAMNE. 

Couldst thou not borrow that would buy us bread ! 



104 



AYLMEKE. 

I would have borrowed, but the pampered churl 

Asked for a pledge. I prayed but for one piece 

From his uncounted hoards. "Mj child," I said, 

" Mine only boy, my sinless one and lovely. 

Is starving ! give me aid !" — '^ Your pledge," he asked. 

" Alas, my child." — " I cannot sell the brat !" 

The usurer cried. 

And, while a fierce smile lit his wintry face, 

He bade his servants spurn me from the door ! 

Can heaven look on. 

When the rich tyrant tortures his pale victim. 

Wrings his spent soul, and laughs ? Is it well, nature ? 

I am not thwart in form, nor is my soul 

Distempered ; shame sits not upon my brow, 

Nor has wrong soiled my hand ; why. Heaven, am I 

Spurned from the general feast thou hast provided ? 

MARIAMNE. 

Be calmed, my Aylmere ; thou'lt awake our boy, 
And he but wakes to wail. 

AYLMEKE. 

My Mariamne, 
Alas, thine eye is dim, and thy hand trembles. 

MARIAMNE. 

I faint for food. Our store, 'twas but a crust, 
I gave unto our boy ; and yet he sinks ! 
Since you departed, years of agony 
Have crowded into hours. Our child slept on 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 105 

My knee ; and as I watched his troubled slumber, 

Sudden his face grew dark, his eyelids raised, 

And his eye glared with a strange horror, on me ! 

I thought 'twas death, and shrieked — it roused our boy ; 

'Wildered with terror — shrieking — smiting me, 

He fell into convulsions ! Oh ! that hour ! 

AYLMERE. 

Now Heaven be with us, for our griefs are many ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Since then, his wail is feebler ; and his eye, 
Which when you went was fever-lit, is now 
Heavy and lustreless. 

AYLMERE. 

God ! should we lose him ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Thou tremblest, Aylmere ; — will he die ? 

AYLMERE. 

Poor boy ! 
Did he speak ? 

MARIAMNE. 

Once, he woke and prattled with 
Delirious gaiety. — Oh ! it was fearful 
To see his sunken cheek enwreathed with laughter, 
The hollow mirth of death ! He asked for thee. 
But knew me not ; alas ! why knew he not 
His mother ? Then he sunk into a stupor. 

(Aylmere goes to the pallet silently^ and lifts the cover — starts.) 



106 



AYLMERE. 

Oh God ! Is this my boy ! — The lid is raised, 
But the eye sees not ! Hist ! how faint and low 
His breathing ! Oh, my boy ! His brow is damp 
With a chill dew ! 

MARIAMNE. 

(^Clinging to him and looking terrified in his face.) 

Aylmere ! 

AYLMERE. 

My boy ! my boy ! 



But food for him ! 



MARIAMNE. 



AYLMERE. 



Had we 



Pale penury ! alas. 
Even crime w^ars not so dark a brow as thine. 
Nor knows so fierce and fell an agony ! 

MARIAMNE. 

That he should die for food ! 

AYLMERE. 

He shall not ! — shall not ! 
Madness and death ! I'll buy it, if with blood ! 
Why should the perfumed lordling roll in gold. 
And thou, wan child of sorrow, die for that 
Which he throws careless to his cringing lacquey ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 107 

Each laced and lisping fool is rich ; whilst I — 
Oh, shame on justice ! — watch my infant starving ! 
Look to the child. I'll forth. Did Heaven mean this ? 
No, 'tis no crime — no crime ! They've filched my share 
Of nature's equal boon ; and by my wrongs, 
Though death stand by, I'll wrench it back again ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Leave us not, Aylmere ! 

AYLMERE. 

I'll be here anon. 
Oh, oppression! 'Tis not thine own crimes only. 
Fell as they are, will frown on thee at compt ; 
But every desperate deed, in frenzy done 
By maddened innocence, will claim thee sire. 
And thunder-toned, pronounce thee guilty ! guilty ! 

(Aylmere rushes out. The scene closes.) 



SCENE FIFTH. 

The forest. Enter Say. 

SAY. 

Where loiters Clifford ? Now, beshrew the laggards ! 
They shame the sport. If in this sombre wood, 
Where nature's king, where the poor slave's a man 
And I no more, — I should these plotters meet, 
'Twere a grave peril. Would I'd vexed 'em not! 
But there's no pausing-place in wrong. — 'Tis done. 



108 



No time for thoughts or fears. The venturous hind 
Who clambers up the steepy precipice, 
When the rock crumbles 'neath his wary foot, 
And falls, far echoing, in the flood below. 
Stays not to tremble, turns him not to gaze ; 
But upward looks and onward works his way. 
Thanks for the lesson ! Tho' my foothold be 
As frail as love, yet, yet will I not falter. 
Ha ! who is he approaches ? 

[Enter Aylmere.) 
AYLMEEE. 

Well met, sir. 



SAY. 



Why, how now, knave ! 



AYLMERE. 

Knave ! — Be it so — I'm poor 
And thou art wealthy. I would have some gold. 

SAY. 

Thou darest not rob me ! j 

AYLMERE. 

What will misery dare not ? 
I dare ! 

SAY. 

Sirrah ! I am a peer ! 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 109 

AYLMERE. 

And SO 

Am I — thy peer, and any man's — ten times 
Thy peer, and thou'rt not honest. 

SAY. 

Insolent ! 
My fathers were made noble by a king ! 

AYLMERE. 

And mine by a God ! The people are God's own 

Nobility ; and wear their stars not on 

■Their breasts, but in them !- — But go to ! I trifle. 

SAY. 

Dost not fear justice ? 

AYLMERE. 

The justice o' the court? 
Nursled on blood ! — A petted falcon which 
You fly at weakness ! I do know your justice ! 
Crouching and meek, to proud and purpled Wrong ; 
But tiger-toothed and ravenous o'er pale Bight. 
I do nor love nor fear it. 

SAY. 

Who is he ? 
A bold knave ! Would they were here ! What art thou, 
That speakest thus rashly ? 

10 



110 AYLMERE, 

AYLMERE. 

What thou see'st — a man — 
Poor and in need of gold — desperate — wild ! 
Yield thee ; or — 

SAY. 

Slave ! I will not yield. 

AYLMEEE. 

By heaven ! — 
But I would do no crime ! My lord, I am 
The wretched father of a boy wdiom now 
I left, hard by, to perish, and for bread. 
Give me a piece ! but one ! and I will bless thee ! 
Who says I'm stern ? Thou see'st I'm wondrous humble, 
And beg, beg — beg ! God, has it come to this ! 

SAY. 

Out of my way ! 

AYLMERE. 

My lord, let him not perish ! 
Oh, save my child ! 

SAY. 

Off, carle ! or thus I spurn thee ! 

AYLMERE. 

Ha ! then have at thee ! Thy gold or thy base life, 
Arrogant lordling ! 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 

SAY. 

Hold, slave ! Thou art mad ! 
I am the treasurer of the realm. Lord Say ! 

AYLMEEE. 

[Bursts into a fierce laugh of exultation.) 

Fortune, for this I do forgive thee all ! 

SAY. 

Doth he laugh at me ? 

AYLMERE. 

Heaven hath sent him to me, 
For sacrifice ! The years have yielded up 
That hour so long and bitterly awaited ! 
Down, down, my heart ! I would be calm. 

SAY. 

' Give way ! 
I see thou'rt awed, and do forgive thee. 

AYLMERE. 

Stir not, 

I am thy executioner. (Draws Ms knife.) 

SAY. 

What mean you ? 

AYLMERE. 

That thou must die ! 

SAY. 

Thou wouldst not slay me, fellow ! 



Ill 



112 AYLMERE, 

AYLMERE. 

Slay thee ! Ay, by this light, as thou wouldst slay 

A wolf ! Bethink thee ; hast not used thy place 

To tread the weak and poor to dust ; to plant 

Shame on each cheek, and sorrow in each heart ? 

Hast thou not plundered, tortured, hunted down 

Thy fellow-men like brutes ? Is not the blood 

Of white-haired Cade black on thy hand ? And doth not 

Each wind stir up against thee, fiend ! the ashes 

Of her whom yesternight you gave the flames ? 

Slay thee, thou fool ! Why now, what devil is it 

That palters with thee, to believe that thou 

Canst do such deeds and live I 

SAY. 

I am unarmed ; 
'Twere craven thus to strike me at advantage. 

AYLMERE. 

Why so it were ! {Laughs scornfully.) Well Said ! well said ! 

Hence, toy! {Throws away the dagger.) 

We're equal now ; and I would have no arms 
But those the tiger hath against thee ! — Now 
For vengeance, justice, for the bond ! 

[Throws himself upon Say. Enter Clifford, Buckingham, 
and train. They interpose.) 

CLIFFORD. 

Hold ! rujffian ! 
Strike him down ! So, secure him. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 113 



AYLMERE. 

Back, slaves ! Baffled ! 
Oh, for one moment, — one — to grind the viper 
Into the earth he poisons ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Art hurt ? 

SAY. 

The villain hath a tiger's clutch ; 
But thanks to you, he harmed me not. 

CLIFFORD. " 

By Heaven ! 
'Tis Aylmere ! Mark you. Say, his form, his carriage, 
All over Mortimer ! 

SAY. 

'Tis Mortimer. 
Let him not see we know him. 

AYLMERE. 

Oh my wife ! 
My child ! may I not die with you ! 

SAY. 

Now, sirrah. 

AYLMERE {sullenly). 

Well, sir. 

10* 



114 AYLMERE, 

SAY. 

Who art thou ? 

AYLMERE. 

One who loves you not, 
And will not speak to pleasure you. 

SAY. 

Know you 
Your crime's meed ? 'Tis — 

jlYLMERE. 

I care not what — 

SAY. 

'Tis death. 

AYLMERE. 

So be it ! Death ! the bondman's last, best friend ! 

It stays th' uplifted thong, hushes the shriek, 

And gives the slave a long, long sleep, unwhipped 

By dreams of torture. In the grave there is 

Ko echo for the tyrant's lash ; 

And the poor bond knoAvs not to shrink, or blush, 

Nor wonder Heaven created such a wretch. 

He who has learned to die, forgets to serve 

Or suffer ! Thank kind Heaven, that I can die ! 

Yet know — Now Heaven sustain me ! 

{Enter Officer and retainers, bringing in Mariamne.) 
OFFICER. 

Good my lord. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. ^^^ 



We found this woman hidden in a cave 
Here in the forest. 

SAY. 

Sirrah, why dost start ? 

AYLMERE. 

I started not. 



Do tremble not. 



SAY. 

Why now dost tremble ? 

AYLMERE. 



SAY. 

Know'st thou her ? 



AYLMERE. 

She's a stranger. 
(Aside) Must she too perish ! I do pity her. 
A woman — thou'lt do her no wrong ! 

MARIAMNE. 

My Aylmere ! 
It is my husband, and be his doom mine ! (Bushes to his arms.) 
Think not (to Aylmere) to part our fates. We'll die to- 
gether ! 

CLIFFORD. 

It is my rustic Venus ; now our hunt 

Hath started game worth winning. (They retire up the stage.) 



116 AYLMERE, THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 

AYLMEEE. 

"Why, alas ! 
Didst draw this ruin on thee, Mariamne ? 

MARIAMNE. 

Wrong me not, Aylmere, so to think I'd bear , 

An unshared safety. 'Tis a joy, a glory, 

To show what in thy griefs I can be to thee ! 

I'll know no sorrow now ; 'tis joy enough 

To comfort thee, my hunted one ! Alas ! {She weeps.) 

AYLMERE. 

How fares our boy, my Mariamne ? {She averts her face.) Speak ! 
They war not against infants — they relieved him ? — 
Still you speak not, wife ! — but — but they are fathers ; 
They harmed him not ! Oh, Mariamne, tell me ! 
He is — he is — they harmed him not ? 

{She turns, bursts into an agony of tears, and throios herself on his bosom.) 
MARIAMNE. 

They could not ! 
He is happy — happy, Aylmere ! 

AYLMERE. 

My child ! 
Desolate ! desolate ! I have no child ! 

{He staggers, sinks upon a bank, and covers his face with his hands ; she 
bends over him.) 

{The curtain drops.) 

END OF ACT THIRD, 



ACT FOURTH. 

SCENE FIRST. 
Enter Lacy and Worthy. Open country. 

WORTHY. 
What do we here ! A thousand sturdy men 
For nought ! Why keep you watch and ward too, father, 
On every hill ? 

LACY. 

Aylmere is prisoner. 

WORTHY. 

May ruin fall on those who made him so ! 
No longer Aylmere, for the commons friend 
Is by all known as Mortimer — the lord 
Of merry England, had he but his right. 

LACY. 

Scarce was he captured, ere his shrieking wife 
Was torn from him, and a strong escort ordered 
With him to London ; where Duke Gloster's fate. 
Brief, dark, and bloody, waits for him. 

WORTHY. 

Be murdered ! 



118 AYLMEEE, 

The commons' leader ! While the commons stand 
Banded and ready at a word, to rise ! 

LACY. 

It shall not be ! This is our purpose, master : 
The escort must this way ; and I have stationed 
Our men to intercept them, and save Aylmere. 
[Enter Mowbray, Straw, Pembroke, S^c.) 

PEMBROKE. 

Father, the escort winds round yonder hill — 
'Tis in itself an army. 

MOWBRAY. 

Well, what then ? 
A thousand staunch and merry men have we. 
May we not crush them ? 

LACY. 

Where's the dastard doubts it ? 

PEMBROKE. 

Thou bearest a weapon ; thou wilt use it not ? 

LACY. 

Will I not ? Son, the cause is heaven's and right's, 
And all men should strike for it. Follow me ; 
And if heaven grant me martyrdom, remember, 
It seals your triumph, and strike boldlier. 

WORTHY. 

Thou'rt ever right ! But, father, should we lose thee. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 
LACY. 

Fear not ; the blow that falls upon the front 
Of wrong, is deadly stricken by an infant ! 

MOWBKAY. 

On to the rescue ! Mortimer to the rescue ! 



119 



\_Exeunt. 



SCENE SECOND. 

A room in the castle. Mariamne solus. 
MARIAMNE. 

To London sent ! And to be tried ! Alas, 

Tried ! He's condemned even now ! Child, husband, lost, 

I have no friend ! yes, — one is left me — this ! {A dagger.) 

One, too, shall leave me not. My Aylmere, ere 

He was torn from me, gave me this, and said, 

" Be it, ivhat I cannot he — thy protector !" 

'Tis all that is between me and dishonour. 

Yet doth it make me free. Beyond thy point. 

No shame can pass ; for when thou canst not guard 

This feeble citadel, still thou wilt ope 

A door to let the hunted spirit out ! 

'Tis night ! — and night, 'tis said, is fear's twin sister. 

Its shadowy spell makes sterner souls than mine 

Soft as the dew, and trembling as the leaf 

On which it falls and glitters. Yet 'twere well, 



120 AYLMERE, 

'Twere^well to die now. Oli, my Aylmere, why, 
Why left we Italy ? (Weeps.) 

(Enter Clifford.) 

CLIFFORD (aside). 

Will not my name 
Rot in the foulness of this villain deed ? 
No matter — 'tis but breath ; — I care not more 
For curses that I hear not, than for gales 
Loaded with poison that sweep o'er the sands 
Of far Arabia. She must — shall — be mine. 

She weeps. (Approaches Mariamne.) 

Nay, gracious lady, weep not. Thou 
Wilt find me no ungentle warder o'er thee. 
Look up ! These torrent tears have swept the roses 
From thy fair cheek. 

MARIAMNE. 

It is not well to mock 
The friendless. 

CLIFFORD. 

Nay, thou art not friendless here. 
My bosom aches o'er all thy sufferings. Trust me — 
I am thy friend. 

MARIAMNE. 

I heed not thy profession. 
Enough — thou art Lord Clifford — friend of Say. 
Fair words bestreak thy meaning, like the lights 
That flush our northern skies, and mock us with 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 

A cheating show of ardour. Woe and weakness 
Will make the simplest wise. I trust thee not. 

CLIFFORD. 

Thou dost me wrong, fair casuist ; and, in me, 
Wrong'st one awakened from a dream of evil, 
To be the friend of virtue. 

MARIAMNE. 



121 



Give me, then. 



Mj husband ! 



CLIFFORD. 

If I could, lady, and I think I can — 

MARIAMNE. 

Oh ! all good men would bless thee ! I would bless thee ; 
And Heaven, that loves just deeds, would hear mj prayer, 
And on thy gracious head, shower rich blessings. {Kneels.) 

CLIFFORD {musingly). 

He hath not yet reached London, — I will save him ! 

MARIAMNE. 

The smile of Heaven be ever on thy soul ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Nay, rise, fair lady, 'tis for me to kneel. 
Thy husband shall be saved ; if thou wilt — 

MARIAMNE. 

What ? . 
I will do anything ; toil till I faint, 

11 



122 A Y L M E R E, 

And be lashed back to life, to toil again ! 
I'll wed with midnight darkness in thy dungeons ; 
I'll w^aste my pale youth out in piteous tears. 
Oh ! I will do or suffer anything ! 

CLIFFORD. 

I ask not this ; thy heaviest task is pleasure. 

Thou shalt be mine, sweet lady ; I will teach thee 

The subtlety of love, till every hour 

Reels 'neath its bliss, and soul and sense are drowned 

In sweet, oblivious rapture ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Said I not 
I knew thee ! wretch ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Stay, lady, and bethink thee ; 
Thy husband's freedom. 

MARIAMNE. 

Purchased with dishonour ! 
'Twere well, to buy his freedom with his curse. 
Unlink his chains and turn him forth to draw 
The thick and tainted air of infamy — 
Ee pointed at, by every honest hand. 
There goes the wanton's husband ! — this thy blessing ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Be not o'er-hasty. I will make thee wealthy — 
Wealthy as Indus. Still thy wish shall be 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 

The parent of thy pleasure. Smile upon me, 
I'll make thee richer than thy rosiest hope. 

MARIAMNE. 

Thou canst not ! Vice is poor, albeit mid thousands. 
I spurn thy bounty. Can the clink of gold 
Shut out the hiss of shame ? 

CLIFFORD. 

The loftiest rank, 
Observance, title, are thine own, if thou 
Art mine. 

MARIAMNE. 

Knowest thou not honour is to rank 
As are its rays unto the worshipped sun, 
Which beamless and unlit, would rise on high 
To be a curse and mockery. 

CLIFFORD. 

Shalt be honoured — 

MARIAMNE. 

By wretches like thyself ! (Away ! thou'rt loathly !) 
While good men called down festering curses on me ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Aylmere and thou are parted, and for ever. 
I feigned a power I have not, when I said 
He could be saved. 



123 



124 AY L ME RE, 

MAEIAMNE. 

Thou'dst tell me — tliou hast lied, 
Thou honourable lord ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Still hear me, lady. 
Aylmere must die ; smile on me, and I'll wed thee ; 
And raise thee mid the loftiest of the land ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Never ! now do I scorn thee more ! Wed thee ! 
I'd rather fling me from thy turret's height ! 
I'd rather wed me to thy basest slave ! 

CLIFFORD. 

By heaven, she flouts me past endurance ! Woman ! 

MARIAMNE. 

I'd rather clasp a pestilence ! Go to 

The charnel house and Aved the dead, than wed 

With thee ! 

CLIFFORD. 

Insolent minion, have a care ! 

MARIAMNE. 

I'd rather be a living death, a leper. 

Alive, as is the corpse — but with corruption. 

And perish thus by piecemeal, than thy bride ! 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 125 

CLIFFORD. 
I am no more thy suitor, but tlij fate ! 
And what I will — I will. 

MARIAMNE (alarmed). 

Thou' It do no outrage. 

CLIFFORD. 

Will I not ? Mistress Pride ! (Seius her.) 

MARIAMNE. 

Off ! tyrant, monster ! {Breaks away.) 
(Aside.) This is the moment ; here mine only trust ! 

(Takes the dagger from her bosom.) 

CLIFFORD. 
Nay, 'tis too late, no struggling ! (Struggles with her.) 

MARIAMNE. 

This for Aylmere ! 

(Stabs him.) 



CLIFFORD. 



Hold, lady! 



MARIAMNE. 

For mine honour, this — and this !- 

(Clifford /aW5.) 

What have I done ! 

11* 



I 



126 



CLIFFORD. 

I have deserved this death : 

But happier is it, than will be thy life, 

Gloomed by the memory of this murder. {Dies.) 

MARIAMNE. 

Murder ! 
Dead ! Why how now ? My brain reels. 'Tis too much ! 

[Sinks down shudderingly .) 
[Enter Say, Buckingham, Officees.) 

SAY. 

What means this noise ? 

BUCKINGHAM. 

Horror ! 'Tis Clifford, dead. 

SAY. 

What bloody act is here ? Is she, too, dead ? 

[She is partly raised up, looks wildly round — laughs.) 
MARIAMNE [in a whisper), 

Aylmere, didst speak ? [Still bewildered.) 
Where am I ? 

[She stands up, sees the red dagger which she still holds ; looks down and sees 
the body 0/ Clifford, shrieks and falls.) 



[Scene closes.) 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 127 

SCENE THIRD. 

The forest. Distant alarums. 
{Enter Straw and Worthy.) 

STRAW. 

How quick their leasy legions shrunk ! 'Pore Heaven, 
I like not such lame sport. 'Tis hardly worth 
The getting in a passion. But, good master. 
Have we freed Mortimer ? 

WORTHY. 

No, by my troth ; 
He freed himself; for when we burst upon them. 
He snatched a sword, and in a moment spread 
A solitude around him. Now beshrew me, 
I know my hammer not, as he the sword. 

[Enter Lacy, Pembroke, Mowbray, aiid others.) 

WORTHY. 

Where's Mortimer ? 

LACY. 

Foremost in the pursuit. 

MOWBRAY. 

He rages like a wounded lion. Who 

Would from so calm a cloud, expect a bolt 

So fierce and blasting ! Is this man our Aylmere ! 



128 AYLMEEE, 

LACY. 

Some fearful spirit seems to swell his frame, 
When, like a slaughter-God, he scatters death. 
And shouts and laughs in killing. It appalled me. 

WORTHY. 

Behold ! He comes I he comes ! 

[Enter Aylmere.) 
LACY. 

Thank Heaven! thou'rt free ! 

AYLMERE {laughs). 

Ay ! once more free ! within my grasp a sword, 
And round me freemen ! Free ! as is the storm 
About your hills ; the surge upon your shore ! 
Free as the sunbeams on the chainless air ; 
Or as the stream that leaps the precipice. 
And in eternal thunder, shouts to Heaven, 
That it 'is free, and will be free for ever ! 

STRAW. 

Now for revenge ! Full long we've fed on wrong : 
Give us revenge ! 

AYLMERE. 

For you and for myself ! 
England from all her hills, cries out for vengeance ! 
The serf, who tills her soil, but tastes not of 
Her fruit, the slave that in her dungeon groans, 
The yeoman plundered, and the maiden wronged, 

\ 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 



129 



Echo the call, in shrieks ! The angry waves 
Repeat the sound in thunder ; and the heavens, 
From their blue vaults, roll back a people's cry 
For liberty and vengeance ! 

LACY. 

Wrong on wrong ! 
Are there no bolts in heaven ? 

AYLMERE. 

No swords on earth? 
He'll ever be a slave, who dares not right 
Himself. The heavens fight not for cravens. Let us strike, 
Strike for ourselves, and Heaven will strike for us : 
But be w^e base, and cogging, smiling slaves, 
And Heaven and earth will scorn us. 



MOWBRAY. -'^^ 

The Lord Say 
Knows of the commons' rising, and hath sent 
For force from London ; all the Kentish lords 
Are arming, and Lord Buckingham is up. 

AYLMERE. 

Up, up ! why so are we ! Here {his sioord) be our answer ! 
They're up ! Why let them on ! Let all come on ! 
Let the storm bellow, till the welkin crack ! 
Now by yon heaven, it glads me ! I would have 
Some stirring work to wake my soul withal ; 
I pant to try my wing so long unfluttered ; 
And here's a sky to soar in ! — Mowbray, where 
Meet our musters? 



130 



MOWBRAY. 

At Seven-oak. 

AYLMERE. 

Thither, then ! 
But only with hot hearts that will hug danger. 
Let falterers — pale-lij^ped slaves who would be men, 
But dare not — back to whip and chain ! Give o'er 
Their fair wives to their lords ; ask leave to groan ; 
And lift their branded brows to the shamed heavens, 
Remembering that they could be free, but would not ! 

WORTHY. 

Fear not ; the sons of Kent are better mettled. 

AYLMERE. 

For Seven-oak, ho ! 

MOWBRAY. 

Ay, on ! for Mortimer ! 

[Exeunt all but Aylmere and Lacy.) 
AYLMERE. 

For Mortimer ! What means this ? When they rushed 
Upon my guard, the cry was " Mortimer 
Unto the rescue I" — Why this iteration 
Of a name now the tomb's ? 

LACY. 

It is believed 
He lives ; even Say thinks thou art none but he ; — 
The rightful King of England ! 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 131 

AYLMERE. 

Ha ! 'twas oft 
Said that mj favour semblanced his. 

LACY. 

The i^eople 
Have caught the thought, and ne'er will deem thee other. 
Mortimer is a name to conjure up 
Thousands of daring spirits for the cause. 

AYLMERE. 

It is? 

LACY. 

That spell hath called this host together : 
Unspeak it, and thej scatter with the wind. 

AYLMERE. 

Thou wouldst not have me bear a noble name 
Not mine ? 

LACY. 

Even as thou wilt. Thou still art bond ; 
Art still Jack Cade ; and, known, would be given up 
As Say's born thrall. Thou now bear'st name not thine, 
Aylmere ; — why not a prince's name as well ? 
Our host is glued together with the name 
Of Mortimer : — disclaim it — all is o'er ; 
And England may crawl back into her chains ! 

AYLMERE {musingly). 

Tear out this plank and sink our brave emprise, 



132 



Even at the haven's mouth ! Say's frighted soul 

Sees his fallen foe in me. As he wills, be it ! 

I'll be the spectre of wronged Mortimer, 

And haunt him into madness ! — And my wife, — 

'Tw^ill aid to free my Mariamne ! He 

Whose mildewed brow is raised, like mine, to watch 

The tyrant gloating o'er his wrongs, will know 

The wherefore of this deed. {To Lacy.) I'll do this thing. 

I will be Mortimer unto the world ; — but only 

Until our chains are molten in the glow 

Of kindled spirits ; for I seek not power : 

I would not, like the seeled dove, soar on high. 

To sink clod-like again to earth. I know 

No glory, — save the godlike joy of making 

The bondman free. When we are free. Jack Cade 

Will back unto his hills, and proudly smile 

Doivn on the spangled meanness of the court, 

Claiming a title higher than their highest, — 

An honest man — a freeman ! 

LACY. 

I am cheered 
To see thy spirit mounting thus. I feared 
Thy Mariamne's danger — 

AYLMERE. 

Speak not of her ! 

LACY. 

I thought not to have moved thee thus. Forgive me ! 

AYLMERE. 

'Tis said that torturers bare their victim's head 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 133 

To dropping water, till tlie gentle blow, 
Incessantly repeated, racks the brain. 
And the soft dew-drop, on the shrinking head 
Breaks like the bolt of heaven. Is't so with me? 
Have fortune's blows so crushed me, that I cower 
Even at a word ? — Mine was a breast of rock. 
And she its only flower : how early blasted ! 
Have I lost her ! 

LACY. 

Nay — doubt not, she is safe. 

AYLMERE. 

Oh ! she was lovely as the smile of hope, 
And gentle as the dewy star of eve ! 
Through every motion of her mind there beamed 
A spirit pure as the bright, silver sand. 
Stirred by the crystal eddy of the spring ! 

(A drum heard.) 

A drum ! another ! 

LACY. 

Say's force is in motion. 

AYLMERE. 

By Heaven, I do forget myself, this while ! 
War, iron war 's my only bride this day, 
And by the people's wrongs, I'll woo her bravely. 
How are our men ? Do their souls bear an edge 
Keen and well-tempered for the morrow's fight ? 

12 



lU 



LACY. 

They will not shame old Kent, unconquered Kent ! 

AYLMERE. 

I'd have theb veins flow to the coming fight, 
Like the fierce torrent to the cataract ! 
Father, unto our host ! Bid each man strike. 
In God's name, for God's gifts. 
We'll meet no more, or meet as freemen, father ! 

\_Exeunt severally/. 



SCENE FOURTH. 

Say's ca77ip. Seven-oak. Say and Buckingham. 

BUCKINGHAM. 

They dream not such a force as yours can fall 

In peril ; — nor foresee that Kent and Essex 

Should thus unkennel all their bloodhounds on us. 

I will to London ; our dull friends shall know 

You're here at Seven-oak, leagured by a host 

Of threescore thousand unchained slaves. Meanwhile 

Let the worst swell the worst — thou'lt yield not ? 

SAY. 

Yield ! 
By Heaven, it shall be death to speak of it ! 
Yield to the insolent kern ! 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 135 

BUCKINGHAM. 

Ne'er heed the mob. 
The saucy dust mounts in the gusty air, 
The highest just before the torrent storm 
Beats it to mire again. What though the rout, 
The compost of the reahn, is smoking now 
With its vile heat ? Show them the whip, they'll flee 
Like beaten whelps. 

SAY. 
The name of Mortimer 
Gathers the bond, like bees. His valour, too. 
In his late rescue glitters in their eyes. 

BUCKINGHAM. 

Mad but the mettled fool, he'll rush on ruin. 
As eagles pounce upon a baited spear. 

SAY. 

I have his wife, the murdress of our Clifford, 
Here in our camp. — He knows not she is maniac : 
And with this gripe upon his heart, I'll yet 

Bow him to terms. (Alarum.) 

[Enter Soldier.) 

SOLDIER. 

My lord, the bond have fallen 
In thousands on our camp. They are led on 
By our late prisoner, and fight more like devils 
Than men. 



186 AYLMERE, 

SAY. 

So soon ? — to horse ! away — away ! 

[^Exmni. 



SCENE FIFTH. 

A tent in the camp of Say. Mariamne [crazed), two Female Attendants. 

[Sound of distant alarums.) 

FIRST ATTENDANT. 

They say the camp 's assailed. * 

SECOND ATTENDANT. 

Hearest not the din ? 

FIRST ATTENDANT, 

Shall we not fly ? 

SECOND ATTENDANT, 

They can do nought. 

MARIAMNE. 

Girl, bring 
My boy ; he hath not kissed his father yet. 

SECOND ATTENDANT. 

Yield to her phantasy. 

\_Exit First Attendant. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 187 

MARIAMNE. 

Oh, how I joy 
To be again in Italy ! Its breath 
Visits my forehead like a mother's kiss. 
My Aylmere, see'st not — {Turns round.) Where's my hus- 
band ? gone ! 

SECOND ATTENDANT. 

Lady, wilt not to couch ! Thou art aweary. 

MARIAMNE. 

That cell, — its damps have crept into my brain, 
And set me madding. The snail trails the wall. 
And the toad bloats upon the floor : I' the night 
When the faint glimmer through my grate was gone. 
And all was dark and cold save my poor brain, — 
(Is it not strange that should be ever hot ?) 
Then spirits came, and mopped and jeered at me. 
From out the darkness. Hist ! thine ear ; I'll tell thee. 

SECOND ATTENDANT. 

The din is nearer, louder — and that shout — 

The bond prevail. Heaven save me ! I must fly. 

\_Exit. 

MARIAMNE {not seeing the departure of the attendant). 

They said — thou'lt tell it not ? — alone ? alone ? 
Now this is joyous ! No eye gazes on me ! 
My spirit-loves, my mother and my sisters, 
Will now come to me. — Men say I am mad : 
I, mad! A merry thought. {Laughs.) Come, mother, come 
And speak to me ! My brain is molten lead, — 

12* 



138 



My heart is ashes — and, oh Heaven, mine eyes, 

On fire, on fire ! — And not a tear to quench them ! 

When I'm a queen, I'll have a sea of tears 

To lave me in. The cruel ones are gone. 

Then will I forth, and find my darling ! See — 

See, I have food, ay, dainty food, for him ! 

I know where they have hid him ; and I'll forth, 

And dig — dig — dig ! They said that he was dead, 

As if kind Heaven could take my poor boy from me. 

Dead, dead ! Why that were woe indeed ! I weep 

Even to think of it. — I know to find him ! 

He 's pale and wan, — the sweet boy is a-starving — 

He wants but food ! Hist ! hist ! they see me not ! 

[^Exit stealthili/. 



SCENE SIXTH. 

Seven-oak. Alarums, shouts. Enter Straw, Pembroke, Sutton, 
and others, the bond. 

PEMBROKE. 

Victory ! The day's our own ! 

STRAW. 

A Mortimer ! 
The commons' king — a Mortimer ! 

{Shouts from the bond.) 
PEMBROKE. 

He comes ! 

(Enter Aylmere, Mowbray, Lacy, and others.) 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 139 

AYLMERE. 

Not taken ! Say not taken ! — Now to horse, 
Mowbray, in the pursuit ! {Exit Mowbray.) Not taken ! why 
This lames our triumph. Yet have we done well. 
The black'ning page of England's degradation 
Is blotted out with blood. The avenger's sword 
Hath glittered in their path ; and our stern masters 
Hug now the earth they lorded ! War's red wheel 
Reeks with the hot gore of a thousand hearts 
That throbbed in knightly bosoms ! Slaughter's self 
Is sated ; and Revenge turns, palled and pale, 
From her ensanguined feast ! We'll slay no more ! 
[Enter Worthy and prisoners, Archbtshop of Canterbury and others.) 

WORTHY. 

My lord, the prisoners. 

AYLMERE. 

How hushed and meek 
Are now these thunderers ! Why call ye not 
The thong, the rack, the axe, for us, your slaves ! 
Oh ye are men now, only men ; — methought 
Ye were the Gods of the crushed earth ! How say ye ? 

■ LORD. 

You will not dare to hold us ? 

AYLMERE. 

Heaven forefend ! 
Hold a lord captive ! Awful sacrilege ! 
Oh no ! We'll wait on you with trembling reverence ! 



140 AYLMERE, 

Ay, vail our brows before you — kneel to serve you ! 
What ! hold a lord ! 

ARCHBISHOP. 

He mocks us. 

^ AYLMERE. 

Save your lordships ! 
Pembroke, take hence, and strip these popinjays, 
These moths that live for lust and slaughter ! strip them, 
Garb their trim forms and perfumed limbs in russet. 
And drive them to the field ! We'll teach you, lords, 
To till the glebe you've nurtured with our blood ; 
Your brows to damp with honourable dew. 
And your fair hands with wholesome toil to harden. 

LORD. 

Thou wilt not use us thus ? 

AYLMERE. 

And wherefore not ? 

LORD. 

Heaven gave us rank, and freed that rank from labour. 

'' AYLMERE. 

Go to ! thou speak'st not truth ! Would Heaven, thou fool, 

Wrest nature from her throne, and tread in dust 

Millions of noble hearts, that worms like thee 

Might riot in their filthy joys untroubled ? 

Heaven were not Heaven were such as ye its chosen. 



THEBONDMANOFKENT. 1^1 

ARCHBISHOP. \ 

I'm of the Holy Church ; thou'lt free me ? 

AYLMERE. 

Thou ! 
That speakest Heaven's truths, as speaks the dial, i 

Only i' the sunshme : but for the night "-^- 

Of poverty and woe hast ne'er a word ! 
Thou saint of silks and odours ! Sure thy mission 
Is to the noble only : 'twere a taint, 
To bring a sweaty peasant into Heaven ! 
Thou whited wall ! 

ARCHBISHOP. 

Hast thou no reverence for 
Religion ? 

AYLMERE. 

All that heart can yield ! But none 
For those whose surplice covers itching sin. 
Hearts black with guilt, frames bloat and rank with riot. 
Why, ye wax fat on piety ! Ye pamper 
Your low, gross lusts, and all i' the name of Heaven ! 
Ye rob the poor — and pray ; ye drink the tears 
Of the lone orphan — and then prate of mercy I 
Off, with his purple ! Hide his shaven crown 
In the worn cowl of the good mendicants ; 
And thrust him forth. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

Irreverend man ! 



142 A Y L M E R E, 

AYLMERE. 

I know you, know you all ! 

Vice crouches in your palaces ; shame sits 

In your high places ; and lust leers from brows 

Mantled in holy-seeming cowls ! Look to them, 

Pembroke ! See my bidding done. 

[Exeunt Pembroke and prisoners. 

And now for London ! 
But first unto the castle. — Mariamne, 
Cheer up ! I come to free thee ! — To the castle ! 

[Going out, he meets Mariamne, who enters.) 
What, Mariamne ! 

[He rushes to her a7id embraces her ; she shrieks and breaks from him 
shudder in gly.) 

MARIAMNE. 

Off! I scorn, I loathe thee ! 

AYLMERE. 

She knows me not ! Her brain is wandering ! This 
With the rest, oh Heaven ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Wed thee, monster ? never ! 
Or ere upon thy breast I'd lay my head, 
I'd hide me in a charnel-house, and sport 
With the red worm among the carrion dead ; 
Lip the foul skull, and with the green corse dally ! 

AYLMERE. 

There has been wrong here ! Knowest me, Mariamne ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 143 

MARIAMNE. 

I know thee ! thou art — no, thou art not Clifford. 
Thou'lt wrong me not? What, weeping ! then I know 
Thou wilt be kind, and aid me. Hist ! (lohispers) they've hid 
My sweet boy in the earth — the cold — cold earth ; 
And I would dig my gentle darling out. 
And thou wilt aid me ? 

AYLMERE. 

Anything but this ! 
I could have seen her die, and kissed her lips. 
And caught her last low sigh. I could have lain 
Her gentle form in earth, and never murmured ! 
I think — I think — I could ! But thus to see her ! 
Thus ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Haste ! or he will die for lack of food ! 
What ! Thou wilt not ! 

AYLMERE. 

Beloved, who hath wronged thee ? 

MARIAMNE. 

In Italy again ! Hark ! hear you not 
The tinkling of our fountain. In the grot 
I'll find my Aylmere. — Come, my boy ! — 'Tis strange 
That such wild sights should float before me ! Now 
Look there ! — Ha, Clifford ! I do spurn thee still ! 
Away ! — 'tis gone ! — But what is this ? — A corpse ! 
'Tis Clifford's ! and 'twas I that did it— I ! 
See ! see ! 'Tis terrible, yet I can bear it. 



144 



The eel-like writhing round the heart-struck steel ; 
The warm blood gurgling from the gaping wound ; 
The black'ning brow ; the palpitating corse ; 
The tossed hand plashing in the puddled blood ! 

(She sinks down, covering her face.) 
AYLMERB. 

Who knows of this ? 

LACY. 

I feared to tell it thee. 
'Tis said that when the Lady Mariamne 
Was taken to the castle, goatish Clifford — 



AYLMERE. 



Ha! 



LACY. 

Nay hear me. He offered foul wrong to her. 

AYLMERE. 

He offered wrong to her ; — he did none — speak ! 

LACY. 

She spurned him. 

AYLMERE. 

Why, of course, she spurned him, Monk ! 
What did he ? what did he ? 

LACY. 

He ventured then, 
The wretch ! on force. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 145 

AYLMERE. 

On force ! Now let me die ! 
Farewell the bondman's cause ! I'll to the desert ! 
Come, my poor Mariamne ! I'll soon be 
Even mad as thou ! 

LACY. 

Thou hast not heard me out. 

AYLMERE. 

I've heard enough ! Oh Heaven, didst thou look on ? 

LACY. 

You gave your wife a weapon ? 

AYLMERE. 

Yes, what then ? 

LACY. 

When Clifford would have clasped her, with that steel 
She struck him to the heart ! 

AYLMERE {bursts into laughter). 

Who speaks to me of woe ? Why, I am merry ! 
She struck him down ! My noble Mariamne ! 
I was a fool to fear ! Alas, poor> ruin, 
I'll watch o'er thee, as doth the ivy watch 
Over the crumbled arch, and prouder, prouder, 
Of thee than of a queen ! Poor Mariamne ! 

[Bends over her. Curtain drops.) 

END OF ACT FOURTH. 
13 



ACT FIFTH. 

SCENE FIRST. 

London. Enter Say, Buckingham, Officers, and Soldiers. London bridge. 

SAY. 

These bondmen fight like fiends. 

BUCKINGHAM. 

'Tis Mortimer 
That makes them heroes. {Distant shout.) Hark ! they follow 

hard 
Upon us. It is vain to struggle further. 
Lord Mortimer now leads some fourscore thousand. 

SAY. 

'Tis said he doth not seek the crown ! but asks 
Only for freedom for the bond. 

BUCKINGHAM. 

{Another shout.) Again ! 

Let us unto the tower : there we are safe. 

SAY. 

Not long, I fear : {shouts) they are upon us. Hence ! 

[Exeunt. 



147 



(A cry of '^ 3Iortimer ! ^lortimerP^ Enter Worthy, Mowbray, Lacy, 
Straw, Pembroke, and others of the parti/ of the commons, «w(Z Aylmere, 
di-essed as a knight.) 

AYLMERE. 
Now Mortimer is lord o' the city. Thus, {Striking London stone.) 

Thus upon London do I lay my sword ! 

As she is to the bond — so I to her ! 

{To his sivord.) Thou friend of those who have no friend beside, 

Be with me, till the name of slave is known not ! 

Then rest and rust for ever. {SheatMiig it.) Master Mowbray, 

What of the King ? 

MOWBRAY. 

He's fled to Kenilworth. 

AYLMERE. 

And Say and Buckingham ? 

MOWBRAY. 

Have doubtless taken 
Kefuge in the tower. 

AYLMERE {to Officer), 

Let it be invested ; 
And on thy life, have care that Say escape not. 

\_Exit Officer. 

Escape ! As well the night escape the dawn ! 
Earth hath no shelter for him. 

WORTHY. 

Good, my lord. 



148 



A Y L M E R E, 



The jarring nobles in the north, have leagued 
Against thee. 

AYLMERE. 

I care not. They'll fall asunder. 
They're frozen together by their hate of us, 
Like arches in ice-palaces ; but when 
Our sunny triumph shines upon their union, 
They'll melt and fall to ruins. 
Pembroke, be it proclaimed throughout our host, 
The commons rise for right — a holy right — 
And not for lawless license. Whoso robs 
Or doth a wrong unto the citizens, 
Shall, in the king's name, suffer death. Proclaim it. 
And lest the night should breed excess, at sunset 
Lead our force forth the city. Master Mowbray. 

WORTHY. 

Next step, my lord, must be your coronation. 

MOWBRAY. 

And then for France ! We'll dim first Edward's glory. 

AYLMERE. 

Glory ! Alas, you know not what you crave. 
It is a pearl fished up from seas of blood ; 
A feather ye would sluice your veins to win, 
That it may flaunt upon your tyrant's broAV, 
Making him more your tyrant. 

MOWBRAY. 

But we're free ! 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 149 

AYLMERE. 

And freedom asks no borrowed light from fame. 
'Tis glory of itself! 

MOWBRAY. 

Make it more glorious. 

AYLMERE. 

The lust of big, brave words is, to the free, 
What love of sugared praise to beauty is, 
Betraying to debasement. 'Tis a flame. 
That like the glorious torch of the volcano. 
Lights the pale land, and leaves it desolate ! 
Unto your posts. A wary eye upon 
Your followers. Power even in the cause of freedom 
Not always studies right. 

l^JExeunt all but Lacy and Aylmere. 

Now, father, tell me. 
Do her lost thoughts still wander through the wild 
Of her afflictions ? Is there no hope ? — none ? 

LACY. 

She's sinking fast ; but ere she dies, her mind 
May in its setting glimmer through the clouds 
For a brief moment. 

AYLMERE. 

Could we but die together ! 

LACY. 

Cade, forget not 
Thy task. 

13* 



1-50 AYLMERE, 

AYLMERE. 

I will not ! I will play my part. 
'Twill very soon be o'er ! 'Tis but to force 
A charter for our freedom ; — and, — to slay 
The tiger, that hath preyed on parents — child — 
Wife ! — all my heart e'er clasped ! To make revenge 
A science and a joy ! To heap all tortures 
And all shames upon him ! Watch, drop by drop. 
His heart ooze out, and curse each drop in falling ! 
This will I do ; and then, the bondman's task 
Is done ; and life-worn Cade may join his kindred ! 

\_Ezeunt. 



SCENE SECOND. 

A street in London. A number of Kentish me^i in the street, before a 
vint7ier^s house. 

FIRST MAN. 

It is the vintner's. Let us in and tap 
Q^he good man's sack. 

SECOND MAN. 

'Tis barred against us. Have je 
No pick, no axe ? 

FIRST MAN. 

Ho ! vintner ! ho ! come forth. 
We'd drink to Mortimer. Unbar your door. 
Or we will force it. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 151 

SECOND MAN. 

He hears us not, Halloo ! 



ALL. 

Halloo! halloo! 



FIRST MAN. 

Hush ! hush ! Here are our captains. 

{Enter Mowbray, Worthy, and others.) 



WORTHY. 

What means this ? Are ye Kentish ? 

FIRST MAN. 

Ay, good master. 

WORTHY. 

Know ye the order of Lord Mortimer ? 
Ye will be hanged for this ! 

MOWBRAY. 

Away, in peace. 
We'll speak not of it. Get you gone, away ! 

\_Exeunt the Commons. 
WORTHY. 

Our host is yesty with this spirit. Would 

That Mortimer were with them. He can sway them. 

MOWBRAY. 

But there's a mountain on his soul, sad prince ! 
Never was lord more hapless ! Had my Kate, 



152 AYLMEEE, 

Mine own sweet wedded Kate, been maddened thus, 
I would be sad as lie ! — Blood must pour for it ! 

WORTHY. 

Know you that our King's council, in tlieir panic. 
Have craved a parley witli our captain ? They 
Meet at Guildhall. 

MOWBRAY. 

And meet rough answer there ; 
Unless they yield the freedom of the bond. 

W^ORTHY. 

Mortimer clings to that as to his life. 
Let us unto the council. 



MOWBRAY. 

We attend you. 



[^Exeunt. 



SCENE THIRD. 

The Guildhall in London. Aylmere seated at a table. Lacy. 
AYLMERE. 

Why should we murmur ? We were born to suffer ! 
Misery is earth's liege lord — the dark-browed God, 
To whom her myriads, in all times, have bowed. 
Why should we murmur ? Earth is but a tomb : 
Its lamp, the sun, but lights 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 153 

The crumbled or the crumbling — dust that is, 
Or will be ! 

[Enter Straw, Pembroke, and others, with a prisoner.) 
STRAW. 

Good, my lord, we found this knave 
Rifling the house of one whom he had slain. 

PRISONER. 

I am of Kent, and hold with Mortimer. 

AYLMERE. 

The men of Kent are true men, and not robbers. 
Your duty. — Take him hence. 

PRISONER. 

Oh, spare me ! Mercy ! 

AYLMERE. 

Mercy to thee, would whet the tooth of rapine. 
And urge it on to murder. 

[ Waves them out. Exexmt. 

He fears death ! 
Why I would totter to its gentle arms, 
As a tired infant to its mother's bosom ! 
He who knows life yet fears to die, is mad. 
Mad as the dungeon slave who dreads his freedom. 
Father, hast been among our host ? 

LACY. 

And find them 
Drunken with triumph. They think toil and care 



154 AYLMERE, 

Are over now, and deem that, when they're free, 
Life will be but a lawless long-drawn revel. 

AYLMERE. 

Liberty gives nor light nor heat itself ; 
It but permits us to be good and happy. 
It is to man, what space is to the orbs. 
The medium where he may revolve and shine. 
Or, darkened by his vices, fall for ever ! 

LACY. 

Already they are struggling for their rank. 
All would be great, all captains, leaders, lords. 

/^ AYLMERE. 

Life's story still ! all would o'ertop their fellows ; 
And every rank — the lowest — hath its height 
To which hearts flutter, with as large a hope 
As princes feel for empire ! But in each. 
Ambition struggles with a sea of hate. 
He who sweats up the ridgy grades of life, 
Einds, in each station, icy scorn above. 
Below him hooting envy. 

{Enter Officee.) 
OFEICER. 

The king's council. 
Who audience crave with Mortimer. 

AYLMERE. 

Admit them. 

[Enter Mowbray, Worthy, and others, with Buckingham an<:/ Archbishop 
OF Canterbury.) 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 155 

BUCKINGHAM. 

In the King's name, Lord Mortimer, we come, 
To ask why thus you fright his peaceful reahn 
With wild rebellion ? 

AYLMEEE. 

Why ! — You mock us, lords ! 
Are ye so deaf that England's shrieks ye hear not ? 
So blind, ye see not her wan brow sweat blood ? 

BUCKINGHAM. 

My lord, if you seek power in this, remember, 

The greatness which is born in anarchy. 

And thrown aloft in tumult, cannot last. 

It mounts, like rocks hurled skywards by volcanoes, 

Flashes a guilty moment, and falls back 

In the red earthquake's bosom. • 

AYLMERE. 

Sagely said ! 
Go back unto the court, and preach it, where. 
Fraud laughs at faith, and force at right, and where 
Success is sainted if it come from hell ! 
I leave your royal toys to idiot kings ; 
And seek the right — the right ! 



We promise mercy. 



BUCKINGHAM. 

Disband your force ; 

AYLMERE. 

Now 'fore Heaven, you're kind. 



156 AYLMERE, 

You've scourged, and chained," and mocked us ; made God' 

earth 
A dungeon, and a living grave ; and now, 
When we are free, — our swords in our right hands, 
Our tyrants shivering at our feet — ye prate 
Of promised mercy. Hark ye ! if you yield not, 
The wolf shall howl in your spoiled palaces ! 
Better were England made a wild, than be 
The home of bondmen ! 

BUCKINGHAM. 

What do you demand ? 
We would have peace, if not too dearly bought. 

AYLMERE. 

We're deaf. Say lives ! 'Till he be rendered up, 
We know no word like peace ! 

BUCKINGHAM. 

He is in ward. 
And, to appease the commons, shall be tried. 

AYLMERE. 

Pah ! He is tried and sentenced by a nation ! 
Give him, or — we will take him ! — We can do it ; 
And, gentle sirs, ye know it ! 

BUCKINGHAM. 

Be it so ; 
{To attendant.) Bring from the tower Lord Say ! 

ARCHBISHOP (aside). 

Can we not save him ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 157 

BUCKINGHAM (aside), 

'Tis now too late. 

AYLMERE (aside). 

It is no dream — no dream ! 
The hour has come ! 

BUCKINaHAM. 

We yield thee Say : — what further ? 

AYLMEHE. 

That the king grant this charter to his people. 

(Unrolling and exhibiting the scroll.) 
BUCKINGHAM. 

What doth it covenant ? 

AYLMEEE. 

Freedom for the bond ! 

BUCKINGHAM. 

For all ? 

AYLMERE. 

For all ; all who breathe England's air, 
Henceforward shall be free ! 

(Buckingham a?id Ab.cubisrop confer.) 

BUCKINGHAM. 

This too, we grant. 
14 



158 AYLMERE, 

AYLMERE. 

Now can I die in peace ! — It frees, moreover, 
The people from all tyrannous exactions, 
Taxes, and aids, to feed a rotten court. 

BUCKINGHAM. 

All this, — conditioned you withdraw your host. 

AYLMERE. 

A pen, a pen ! — I will, my lord — I will. 
Your name, my Lord Archbishop. 

(Archbishop signs.) 

Yours, my lord, 

(Buckingham signs.) 



BUCKINGHAM. 



Art now content ? 



AYLMERE. 

Not till the realm's broad seal 
Make the chart sacred. 

BUCKINGHAM. 

Nay— 

AYLMERE {impatiently). 

The seal — the seal ! 

BUCKINGHAM. 

As you will. {To officer.) Bear this to the tower, and bid 
My secretary stamp this charter with 
The great seal of the realm. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 169 

AYLMERE. 

And, Mowbray, thou 
With him and haste ! That hope ! that hope ! — And when 
'Tis done, shout the glad tidings to our host ; 
And bid their hearts and voices tell the heavens, 
That they are slaves no more ! 

[Exit MOWBEAY. 

[Enter Officer with Say.) 

Ha! ha! ha! ha! 
Now do I almost love thee, for this hour ! 
Why bridegroom ne'er met bride with such a joy 
As I meet thee ! 

STE AW [rushing foriuard) , 

I'll strike him down ! 

AYLMERE. 

Hold, knave ! 
I cannot spare a hair of that proud head — 
A drop of that foul heart. All, all is mine ! 

SAY. 

Thou fierce and savage man ! 

AYLMERE. 

Fierce ! I am gentle ; 
Gentle and joyous. Fierce ! You see I laugh ! 
[Sternty.) Thou hadst a bondman once — his name was Cade, 
A white-haired man ? 

SAY. 

I had. 



160 A Y L M E R B, 

AYLMERE. 

And for some toy, 
That harmless man was flayed. And thou stoodst by, 
And saw the red whip pierce his quivering flesh, 
Until it fell, piecemeal, into the blood 
That gathered at his feet ! You murdered him ! 

SAY. 

The villain was my bond. 

AYLMERE. 

Your bond ! His child, 
A pale boy, struck you down, and spurned you — spurned 

you. 
And he, too, was your bond ! 

SAY. 

The carle escaped. 

AYLMERE. 

Ay, but forgot you not, though years and troubles 
Passed darkly o'er him ! But thy victim's widow — 
Ha ! doth her name appal thee ? Thine the arm — 
Coward I that smote her ! Thou it was that gave 
Her wasted form to the fierce flames ! thou ! thou ! 
Thought'st thou not of her boy ? The poor Jack Cade 
Is now the avenger ! Mortimer no more — 
Behold me — Cade the bondman ! 

SAY. 

Thou ! Heaven shield me ! 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. IGl 

AYLMERE. 

Even I ! Ha ! ha ! The grace of noble birth ! 
Poor Cade, the bondman, worshipped as a prince ! 
Poor Cade, the bondman, giving laws to princes ! 
But no ! Cade is no bondman ! England's sun 
Sees not a slave ; and her glad breeze floats by, 
And bears no groans save those of her oppressors. 
Now for thj doom. The scourge that slew my father 
Shall, from thy shrinking flesh, lap up the blood 
That gushes at its greeting, till thy frame 
Is ragged from the lash. Then to the stake ! 
My father's torture and my mother's death ! 

SAY (aside). 

No, never by the torture will I die — 
Nor die alone ! I have a weapon still. 
{Tauntingly. ) How fareth Mariamne ? 

AYLMERE. 

Wretch ! But he 
Shall move me not. 

SAY. 

Clifibrd was a rough wooer. 

AYLMERE. 

And wooed his death. 

SAY. 

The murd'ress sank a maniac ; 
And dainty warders had she in the castle. 

14* 



162 AYLMERE, 

Her mingled shrieks and laughter liked me not. 
I sent her to the dungeon. 

AYLMERE (aside). 

To the dungeon ! 

SAY. 

And, as she raved, we bound her. 

AYLMERE. 

Bound ! Just Heaven ! 

SAY. 

To the damp wall, unlit and cold, we bound her. 
On you she called, in mingled shrieks and prayers. 
To calm her, we withheld both food and drink. 
Till nature sank within her. 

AYLMERE. 

God of heaven ! 

SAY. 

'Tis said the scourge will tame the wildest maniac, 
And— 

AYLMERE. 

And what ? 

SAY. 

I bade the Stewart bring 
The hangman's whip. 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 163 

AYLMERE. 

The whip ! I'll hear no more ! 
Die, dog, and rot ! 

(Aylmere stabs Say. They grapple. Say strikes Aylmere with his 
dagger. Atietidants ititerpose. 8 ay falls.) 

LACY {io Aylmere). 

You bleed ! 

SAY. 

He bleeds ? Why then I triumph still ! 
My steel was venomed and its point is fate. 

(Say is withdrawn.) 
AYLMERE. 

Take down to hell my curse, thou blackest fiend 
That e'er its gates let forth ! Oh, Mariamne ! 
[Enter Mariamne.) 

MARIAMNE. 

Have I been dreaming ? or have I been mad ? 
The smoke that palled my brain 
Flies from life's deadening embers now away, 
And leaves me but the ashes. Ha ! my Aylmere ! 

[She totters to his arms.) 
AYLMERE. 

Thou knowest me ? Dost thou not ? Now blessings on thee ! 

MARIAMNE. 

Nearer, my Aylmere, nearer ! I do lose thee ! 



164 AYLMERE, 

Is not this death ? Our boy, they tore me from him : 
Buried they him ? 

AYLMERE. 

Alas, I know not. {She faints.) Faint not ! 
'Tis I — 'tis Aylmere holds thee, Mariamne ! 

MARIAMNE. 

I see thee not, nor hear thee. — Bless thee I Bless thee ! 

{Dies.) 
AYLMERE. 

Look up, love ! Wife ! My Mariamne ! cold ! 
Dead! dead! {Weeps.) 

{He rises — sinks again — is caught and supported.) 

Why should I weep ? Go I not with her ? 
Is Atlas' burthen on me ? Say struck home I 
The charter — is it come ? 

LACY. 

Not yet. 

AYLMERE. 

All slain ! 
Say hath slain all ! I come, my Mariamne ! 

{He sinks upon her body. A distant shout. Another and nearer. 
Ayluerb partlg rises.) 

AYLMERE. 

That shout ? 



THE BONDMAN OF KENT. 165 

LACY. 

Mowbray proclaims the charter. 

AYLMERE. 

Doth he ? 

[Another shout.) 

Again ! 

[A cry tvithout, " The charter! the charter!'' Moavbray rushes in, bearing 
the charter unrolled, and exhibiting the seal.) 

MOWBRAY. 

The charter ! seal and all ! 

(Aylmere starts up with a wild burst of exultation, rushes to him, catches 
the charter, kisses it, and clasps if to his bosom.) 

AYLMERE. 

Free ! free ! 
The bondman is avenged, and England free ! 

[Totters towards Mariamne and sinks. Group.) 
[Curtain drops.) 



N D OF AYLMERE. 



(See note at the close of the volume. 



POEM S. 



THE SONS OP THE WILDERNESS. 



EEFLECTIONS BESIDE AN INDIAN MOUND. 



" Nos patriae fines, et dulcia linquimus arva ; 
Nos patriam fugimus." Virqii.. 



I. 

The cotter's window throws no cheerful light ! 

Toil sweetly sleeps ; and o'er the fragrant plain, 
As infant's slumber, all is calm. The night 

Hath not a voice, save that the nodding grain 
Rustles with every breath ; and the sad strain 

Of the far whip-po-will melts on the ear, 
Now hushed, and now, o'er the stilled stream, again 

Mournfully wafted. Might not fancy here. 
Beside this death-filled mound, in shadows trace. 
Flitting and pale, the forms of an extinguished race ? 

II. 
By whom, and how extinguished ? Who dare say ? 
Yet Nature, ever just, — (from every hill 



168 



THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 



Where their bones whiten to the unpitjing day ; 

From every loved and lovely dell where still 
Their mounds arise ; from river and from rill, 

Which, blushing, told their slaughter to the sea) — 
With the low voice that never slumbers, will 

Ask how a race of Grod's thus ceased to be : 
And ocean, crimsoned earth and shriek-torn air 
Echo — (what can w^e say ?) — where is thy brother ? where ? 

III. 
We will be dumb. But history wiU say, 

That we were exiles, feeble, full of woe ; 
And our red brethren, in an evil day, 

Sheltered, and fed, and saved us : we, to show 
How warm in Christian breast the grateful glow. 

Robbed them of home, and drove them to the wild, 
Further, and further yet ; till, blow on blow — 

(Alas ! we spared nor warrior, wife, nor child !) — 
Left every nook of desperate refuge red ; 
And all that bore their name vfere numbered with the dead. 

IV. 

The cheek will flush, and start the pitying tear, 

When the page tells, how, by Potomac's tide, 
That bandit band, convict and cavalier. 

On fire for gold — which from the Indian's side 
They would have dug, and laughed with demon pride — 

Scoffed at all friendship, faith and gratitude; 
And Murder wooed, as lover woos his bride. 

With jest and song, they merrily embrued 
Their hands in blood ; and the dark game began, 
Greenville, accursed ! with thee, at flaming Secotan.^ 



THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 1^9 

V. 

Their title we inherit. 'Twas the right, 

The robber-right of conquest — one but known 
In the dark chancery of fiends.^ The white, 

Even while the Indian's sheltering arms were thrown 
Around him, gashed the breast on which his own 

Was pillowed. Kindness fell upon his heart 
Like dew upon the rock ; and shriek and groan 

To him were harmony. Why did not start 
That warrior race to arms, their homes to save, 
And fling their feeble foes back on the Atlantic wave ? 

VI. 

This might have been ; this should have been. But they 

Deemed the white man Manitto's son, and spared; 
And, when the dream was o'er, the fateful day 

Had fled — and they were doomed ! They vainly dared 
The hopeless fight, and fell : yet, falling, bared 

Their iron bosoms to their foes ; and died. 
As heroes love to live. Each peril shared, 

The warrior, smiling in his stoic pride. 
Sang his death-song, and joyed. They struck too late ; 
Their star had set ; yet they nor bowed to force nor fate. 

VII. 

Even he whose daring mocked romance, but knew 

The Indian as a victim.^ Not a wrong 
He left unwreaked, as Opecancanough, 

The iron forest Lear, remembered long. 
For his loved land that chieftain struggled strong ; 

And when a century closed his eyes, still beat 

15 



170 THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 

His heart the alarum of his tribe. The song 
Of war arose : the Indian, fierce and fleet, 
Rushed to the sacrifice. No dark-eyed maid 
Availed, in that dread hour, the trembling white to aid. 

VIII. 

Vain was thy love, fond Pocahontas !^ Thou 

Dreamed not so false the race which thou hadst saved: 
Yet — though with fainting heart — thy flashing brow, 

Queenly and cold, that scene of torture braved. 
Loving and lost, thy grief and scorn were graved 

Where no one turned the leaf. Didst thou not think. 
Fawn of the Desert ! of the day when waved 

The war club o'er his head, and thou didst sink 
Between him and the death ? Alas ! that love. 
Young, yearning, truthful, hath no home save that above ! 

IX. 

So at the North, where e'en Religion drew 

From the red breast of War its daily food ; 
Where Virtue was a frailty, if there grew 

Upon its rocky breast a flower that wooed 
With its soft blush the day. Like ice embrued 

With blood, their temper froze into the hue 
Of murder ; and, with saintly phrase and good. 

They hunted down, his native forests through. 
The red man to the death ; and ere could cease 
His last throes, thanked, with eyes upraised, the Prince of 
Peace ! 

X. 

"Welcome the white man !" When with smiles they met 
The weary pilgrim on the pebbly shore, 



THE SONS OF THE WILDEBNESS. 171 

Little they dreamed how soon their hearts would wet 
His blade. Yet long their wrongs they meekly bore ; 

Till the dead rose their warriors to implore 
Against the spoilers of their graves 'J the cry 

Rang from the mountain forest to the shore. 
Alas ! the Indians only struck to die — 

To die with tortures deadlier than their own ! 

And so they perished all — without a grave or groan ! 

XI. 

The white men knew no friends ; no faith knew they ; 

Treaties, oath-sealed, were bonds of straw : their hate. 
Deadly and deep, was proved in many a fray ; 

But deadlier far their smile. Behold the fate 
Of all who loved and trusted ! Not a state 

Bemains to boast their friendship — all have gone ! 
As well the Indian with the panther mate 

As with the white man, with his heart of stone. 
Better, with arms in hand, die, foe, and free, 
Than sink betrayed and spurned, as sank the Cherokee ! 

XII. 

War-worn and faint returned that hapless band :^ 

They had been struggling for the white men's right ; 
And turned — a remnant — to their native land. 

But the scalp-broker watched, with fell delight, 
Their way. What recked he that, in many a fight, 

Those wasted warriors bared unto the foe 
Their breasts for him and those who by the light 

Of his glad fireside sported ! 'Twas enow. 
They Indians were — had scalps ! Their price to gain. 
That hero band, betrayed, were by the white man slain ! 



172 THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS, 

XIII. 

"Let US not," Atakullakulla said, 

" Like our false foes, our hands in blood embrue 
Of friends. The whites, who now our forests tread. 

Be sacred : then — the hatchet dug — we'll do 
Deeds that will make the treacherous pale-face rue 

The hour he wronged us." So they did. But vain 
Their forest valour ; and, at length, they sue 

For peace. What terms are given ? Alas ! they stain 
The page that tells them ! Blood must still be shed : 
Four quivering scalps were asked — new-torn, fresh, reek- 
ing, red ! 

XIV. 

Who has not heard of Logan V He was known 

As the Peacemaker — generous, gentle, brave : 
Alas ! the seeds of mercy he had sown 

Saved not his loved ones from a bloody grave ! 
Loud rang the war-whoop. By Ohio's wave. 

Even from the rising to the setting day, *" 

They battled ; and " Be st^^ong ! he strong ! and save I" 

Rose sternly o'er the din of that affray. 
O'ercome ; lone Logan sought the setting sun : 
For who was left to shed a tear for him ? Not one. 

XV. 

But these were heathens : why not strike them down ? 

Alas ! the Cross has no protection been !^ 
As witnessed Lichtenau, the Christian's own. 

The Hurons burst, with hearts for carnage keen. 
Upon it ; but were met with love ; the scene 



THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 173 

Our history shames. The savage chieftain spoke : 
" I came, with fire, to spoil the valleys green 

Of the false white man's friends. Your words awoke 
My better soul. Be safe" — the warrior said — 
" We are your friends : love God ; and be of none 
afraid." 

XVI. 

The savage foe thus : how the Christian friend ? 

The white man came, proposing peace — ^good will : 
Each heart was glad ; they dreamed not of the end 

Of that dark plot ! The plenteous viands fill 
The welcome board, and all is blithe ; until, 

Sudden encompassed, that meek race were driven — 
Old men, pale matrons, and babes shrieking shrill — 

Before the sword, into the house of Heaven : 
The church was made their prison and their grave ; 
As if, in God's own fane, the avenging God to brave. 

XVII. 

They knelt to Him — their only friend — on high, 

And hymned His praise. Even then, the white man 
rushed 
Upon them — as they knelt ! With hideous cry. 

Knife, club, and axe — the fiends, with fury flushed, 
Their task commenced. All perished ! Mingling, gushed 

The veins of sire and wife ; the white-haired sage 
And sucking babe, beneath the war-club crushed. 

Their brains together plashed the wall ; and age 
And youth weltered in one red heap. 'Twas done ! 
Even hell howled o'er the deed, and shuddered Phlegethon ! 

15* 



174 



THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 



XVIII. 

If God's guilt-blasting justice be not stayed ; 

If murder hath a voice, even from the ground 
Which it hath fattened — are not we afraid f 

Realms have their judgment day ; as Spain hath found ; 
And now, a hissing to the nations round, 

She standeth, stricken by the Eternal hand ; 
Her voice a wail, and her torn breast one wound. 

Before the dower of a virgin world 
Was hers, how bright, how bold Iberia's brow !^ 
She won with blood that world : alas ! what is she now? 

XIX. 

With her own bloodhound's eager thirst, she rushed 

To Murder's banquet ; till her victim's vein 
Murmured, to her, a music, as it gushed. 

Sweeter than rills on Andalusia's plain. 
And then, with dripping hands and reeling brain, 

Drunken with blood, she gathered up the gold 
Of her new India ; and amid her slain. 

She sat, a Moloch ! But, unheard, untold. 
Did those shrieks rise to Heaven ? Or, unseen, fell 
That guiltless blood to earth ? Let her dark annals tell. 

XX. 

Her wealth hath turned, within her crimsoned hand, 
To withered leaves ; her glory set in blood ; 

And foreign swords have reaped her guilty land, 
Sluicing her veins, and leaving Spain aflood 

In her own gore. A foreign king hath stood 
Upon her trampled honour ; and her name 



THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 175 

Is a scorned byword with the just and good. 

Thus, gored and guilty ; lost to freedom, fame ; 
A haggard, hated ruin ; she hath now 
Nought of the boasted Past, but her blood-spotted brow I 

XXI. 

Our country's father was the red man's friend. ^° 

Were not his glorious life one stream of light, 
A moral milky-way, where brightly blend 

A thousand stellar virtues o'er the night 
Of human wrong, still would the truth and right, 

For this alone, his memory consecrate. 
Alas ! our councils since have been their blight ; 

And still, with wolfy steadiness, our hate 
Their fainting race pursues : the spirit dread 
That dyed the Atlantic surf still makes the prairie red. 

XXII. 

Wrong upon wrong ; homes fired, and towns laid low ; 

Still by the Sire of Waters, where the grave 
Of his tribe rose, the Indian lingered slow ; 

Willing to die, but impotent to save : 
The white man struck — and then what could the brave, 

To madness gored, but meet him? 'Tis the tale 
Of old ; fraud first, then force : for they who crave 

The red man's fields pause not to fat the vale 
With his tribe's blood. They fought ; they failed ; they fled — 
A further wild to seek, and mourn their distant dead. 

XXIII. 

In vain, in vain ! through forest and o'er stream, 
A nation — famished, faint, heart-stricken — fled ; 



176 THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 

Father, wife, child ! They did not, could not, deem 
The whites would come the last red drop to shed. 

By Mississippi's side, their blankets spread. 
The mother clasped unto her throbbing breast 

Her shrivelled infant, wondering if 'twas dead ; 
And the stern warrior's trembling lip confest 

A father's agony. — He starts ! His ear 

Catches the measured tread. " My arms ! the whites are 
near !" 

XXIV. 

0, what a field for hearts which, 'neath the blaze 

Of our gemmed flag, would court an equal foe ; 
And pluck, from bristling perils, noble bays ! 

Each volley lays wife, warrior, infant low : 
For, harmless, falls the famished warrior's blow. 

Environed ; flight cut ofi"; submission vain — 
For the white flag was scorned — (0 scene of woe !) 

They madly plunged — beneath the leaden rain — 
Into the torrent stream, and mixed their blood. 
The Christian's rage to shun, with Mississippi's flood ! 

XXV. 

On a young mother's breast an infant slept. 

When broke the foe upon their forest-ground ; 
She sunk ; her heart its purple tear-drops wept 

Upon her child, which, in her death-clasp bound, 
Beneath her fell. Thus was the infant found. 

When battle ceased to fright that distant dell. ^ 

Cold was the mother : but her neck around 

Was one arm of her child ; the other fell 



THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 177 

Shattered and torn. They had not heard its moan : 
Murder held there his court ; his revel reigned alone ! 

XXVI. 

The scene of blood and crime was left alone ; 

The battle-smoke rolled slowly o'er the hill ; 
The forest only heard some gurgled groan ; 

And, in the vale, the slaughter-shout was still. 
The stealthy wolf was left to gorge at will 

O'er his red carnival. The hush was broke 
But by the eager vulture : screaming shrill. 

He watched, impatient, from the blasted oak, 
Then swooped to join the feast. And thus, alone. 
They tore the quivering flesh, and stripped the whitened 
bone. 

XXVII. 

Soon was all trace of murder gone : the rain — 

The tears of Heaven, shed o'er that scene of woe — 
Washed from the leaves and grass the guilty stain ; 

And the warm blood which mingled with the flow 
Of Mississippi — drops which fired the glow 

Of stern and patriot hearts — was swept away 
For ever, with its wave. For ever ? No ! 

The rain that fell on Sodom could not save 
That witness of our sin. On to the main 
It flows, red, red with blood, of victims we have slain ! 

XXVIII. 

And later yet, the Seminole bled. 

It was no war for peace, no war for right : 



178 THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 

Our Country to the desolate red man said : 

" Go ! Go ! for you have land and we have might. 

Go join your wretched brethren, in their flight 

Unto the West !" ''What, leave our people's graves !" 

The Seminole wept, " Alas ! the night 

Is o'er our race. Shall we say to the braves, 

Whose bones here moulder, ' Rise and with us go !' 

Ye're rich : leave us to die here in our want and woe 1 

XXIX. 

" Leave us the wet morass and sterile heath ! 

Soon will we wither 'neath the white man's sun ; 
Add not another pang unto the death 

Of a sad tribe, whose race is almost run ! 
Wait ! we will die ; for wrong has nearly done 

Its worst upon us. Wait ! So dark a crime 
Will wake the anger of the Mighty One !" 

How did we answer ? Tell it not to Time ! 
Hear it not, Heaven ! 'Twas in the cannon's roar, 
Mingling with shriek and groan, on Withlacooche's shore I 

XXX. 

The record lives. A nation's burning blush 

Cannot consume, its tears wash out, the stain ! 
Yet boldly did the foredoomed victims rush 

Upon their foe. The gallant Dade was slain 
With all his host ; and year on year, in vain. 

Our thousands died : till Osceola came, 
Beneath the sacred flag, a peace to gain 

For his thinned tribe. He deemed our faith and fame 
A shield : alas, that e'er that faith was tried ! 
Deceived, betrayed, in bonds, he broken-hearted, died ! 



THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 179 

XXXI. 

Blame not the soldier. He struck not the blow. 

Not his the fault — not his the warrior's pride. 
Weeping, with generous sorrow, for his foe, 

He fought reluctant, and inglorious died. 
He left his love-lit hearth, his shrieking bride, 

Mother and sister, all that gives life worth. 
To perish by the Withlacooche's side : 

His warm corpse hurried 'neath the reddened earth ; 
Left — with no prayer his half-dug grave to bless — 
To the lean, prowling wolf, of that dark wilderness. 

XXXII. 

The red man changed but once. He was our friend ; 

Trusted, and was betrayed ; became our foe. 
Since, life has had to him no other end : 

Freedom, revenge ! He could not, would not know 
Submission. Dearer to him than the flow 

Of his heart's blood, was freedom ; and he met 
The contest' on the shore. Nor did he go 

From his sire's graves till they with blood were wet. 
He died ; but left the white man's howls to tell. 
That man was ne'er so wronged, and ne'er avenged so well ! 

XXXIII. 

No inch of ground was tamely lost. Each hill 
Was made a barrier, and each vale a grave. 

Ere it was left : when, tearless, stern and still, 
Those Spartans of the forest sadly gave 

A last look to the homes they could not save ; 
And turned, with heavy step and heaving breast, 



180 THE SONS OF THE WILDEENESS. 

Unto the West — the West — new wrongs to brave ; 

For, like the sun, the Indian, to the West, 
Hastes to his setting. But, returning, they 
Oft met, like midnight storm, and burst upon their prey. 

XXXIV. 

Woe ! then, to those who slept where theirs had slept ! 

Woe ! to the wife and child that, from the plain 
Which they had planted, gathered food ! They swept. 

Like fire, the land. They laughed, with fierce disdain, 

At mercy. For, had not the white man slain 
Their cherished ? Ay, he was the spoiler, he 

Had poured forth Indian blood like summer rain ! 
Race against race ! why spare ? for one must fall ! 
Why spare ? They smote ; smote fiercely, and smote all ! 

XXXV. 

They were not saints. But were they cowards ? slaves ? 

When did the Indian bow, when he could bleed ? 
When did he leave his people's forest graves 

Untracked in blood ? Thus did the plot proceed ; 
With many a cruel, many a noble deed : 

A plot, whose acts were ages, actors kings. 
Those Catos of the desert sought no meed 

Of fame : no pen records, no patriot sings 
Their praise. Enough, they never shed a tear ; 
They never knew a shame, a shackle, nor a fear. 

XXXVI. 

But, save a feeble few, they are no more ! 
Their many tribes passed, one by one, away. 



THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 181 

Some, like a sapless oak, moss-grown and hoar, 
Fell piecemeal ; others, 'neath the angry sway 

Of the tornado wild, uprooted lay. 
In the earth's palmistry, 'tis said, the sea 

Works, with a halcyon surge, its secret way 
Upon the shore ; or, in its stormy glee, 

Bursts inland : thus, by fraud or force, the wave 

Of the vast sea of wrong has swept the red-man's grave ! 

XXXVII. 

Shall that few perish ? From the East, the cloud, 

Which o'er their path its fatal shadow threw, 
Has westered. They in vain have bled, have bowed : 

From vale to vale their feeble bands withdrew ; 
Still haunted, hunted still. What can they do 

But die ? It is their doom. Their tribes will join 
Their sires, who, in the hunting-ground, pursue 

Their game, where still the Indian's sun can shine. 
Our altars raised abyve a race undone, 
Who will be left to mourn for Logan, then ? Not one ! 



16 



182 



THE PRIDE OF WORTH. 



There is a joy in worth, 
A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm ; 
Which, never daunted, ever bright and warm, 

Mocks at the idle, shadowy ills of earth ; 
Amid the gloom is bright, and tranquil in the storm. 

It asks, it needs no aid ; 
It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne : 
There, in its self-created heaven, alone. 

No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid. 
It sits a lesser God ; — life, life is all its own ! 

The stoic was not wrong : 
There is no evil to the virtuous brave ; 
Or in the battle's rift, or on the wave. 

Worshipped or scorned, alone or 'mid the throng, 
He is himself — a man ! not life's, nor fortune's slave. 

Power and wealth and fame 
Are but as weeds upon life's troubled tide : 
Give me but these, a spirit tempest-tried, 

A brow unshrinking and a soul of flame, 
The joy of conscious worth, its courage and its pride ! 



183 



TO MY WIFE. 



When that chaste blush suffused thy cheek and brow, 
Whitened anon with a pale, maiden fear, 
Thou shrank' st in uttering what I burned to hear : 

And yet I loved thee, love, not then as now. 

Years and their snows have come and gone ; and graves, 
Of thine and mine, have opened ; and the sod 
Is thick above the wealth we gave to God : 

Over my brightest hopes the nightshade waves ; 

And wrongs and wrestlings with a wretched world, 

Gray hairs, and saddened hours, and thoughts of gloom, 

Troop upon troop, dark-browed, have been my doom ; 

And to the earth each hope-reared turret hurled ! 

And yet that blush, suffusing cheek and brow, 

'Twas dear, how dear ! then — but 'tis dearer now. 



184 



THE PIOUS SISTER. 



" Think not the good, 
The gentle deeds of mercy thou hast done 
Shall die forgotten all." Rowe. 

Why, what's tlie world but a wide charnel-house ? 
Its dead, if not renewed, would swell the globe 
Beyond the grasp of thought, and force the spheres, 
Struggling in mazy masses, into chaos. 
Death is our life : we live and live again, 
Rising upon our dust. Alas ! that life 
Knows but one parent — death ! For all we are 
And all we hope, spring from the grave. And if 
All nature moulders thus, until the heel 
Can press no dust that is not of its kind, 
Why what is life ? If given for earth alone, 
Better not given. Believe it not ! Come with me 
Unto death's chosen temple. Misery keeps 
His skeleton orgies here. Couch answers couch 
With the death-rattle. Pale despair clings close 
To the cold breast that knows no other friend. 
And yet the heaven-winged hope that mocks at ill 
Is bolder here than in a palace. See 
The gentle sister of a gentle sect — 
Death's angel ministrant ; for God can fling 



THE PIOUS SISTER. 186 

O'er the pure heart that which makes earth a heaven — 
Plucks pearls from life's dark depths — and from the grave 
Wins smiles as from a setting summer sun. 

She knelt beside his couch. Her fair, slight hands 
Were clasped upon her breast ; and from her lips 
Her spirit's prayer broke murmuringly. Her eyes, 
Large, dark, and trembling in their liquid light, 
Were turned to heaven in tears ; and through her frame 
The panic of a moment chilly ran. 
'Twas but a moment ; and again she rose 
And bent her form above the bed of torture, 
Like the meek lily o'er the troubled wave. 
Her eye was brighter, and her brow more calm, 
As, with untrembling hand, but pallid cheek, 
She ministered unto him. He was dying. 
The pestilence had smitten him ; and he. 
Like to a parchment shrivelled in the flame. 
Withered and shrunk beneath it. His fair brow 
Grew black and blasted ; and where smiles had played, 
Horror, despair and agony sat throned. 
His frame, knotted and writhed, lay an unsightly lump, 
Wrung with unearthly tortures ; and his soul 
Struggled with death, with shrieks, and howls, and curses. 
Men veiled their eyes and fled. Yet she stood there, — 
Still sweetly calm and unappalled, she stood. 
Her soft hand smoothed his torture-wrinkled brow. 
And held the cool draught to his fevered lips. 
Her sweet voice blessed him ; and his soul grew^ calm. 
Death was upon him, black and hideous death. 
Rending his vitals with a hand of flame. 
And wrenching nerves, and knitting sinews up 

16* 



186 THE PIOUS SISTER. 

With iron fingers : — yet his soul grew calm, 

And while her voice in angel accents spoke, 

Rose, with her prayers, to heaven ! One look she gave 

He laid — a blackening, foul, and hideous corse ! 

With sickening heart, the pure one turned away — 

To bend her, fainting, o'er another couch. 

Who would not give a life — a life made rich 

In all that fancy craves — to win the thoughts. 

By seraphs fanned, which waked that night the smile 

That, on her pillow, told she dreamed of Heaven ! 



187 



MY BROTHER. 



" He was asked whom he loved most, and he answered, ' His hrother :' the person, 
who put the question then asked him, whom he loved next, and again he said, ' his 
brother.' ' Whom in the third place?' and still it was, • My hrother ;' and so on till ho 
put no more questions to him about it." — Plutaech's Cato. 



For ever gone ! I am alone — alone ! 

Yet my heart doubts ; to me thou livest yet ; 
Love's lingering twilight o'er my soul is thrown, 

E'en when the orb that lent that light is set. 
Thou minglest with my hopes — does Hope forget ? 

I think of thee, as thou wert at my side ; 

I grieve, and whisper — " he too will regret;" 
I doubt and ponder — "how will he decide?" 
I strive, but 'tis to win thy praises and thy pride. 

II. 
For I thy praise could win — thy praise sincere. 

How lovedst thou me — with more than woman's love ! 
And thou to me wert e'en as honour dear ! 

Nature in one fond w^oof our spirits wove : 

Like wedded vines enclasping in the grove, 
We grew. Ah ! withered now the fairer vine ! 

But from the living who the dead can move ? 



188 MY BROTHER. 

Blending their sere and green leaves, there they twine, 
And will, till dust to dust shall mingle mine with thine. 

III. 
The sunshine of our boyhood ! I bethink 

How we were wont to beat the briery wood ; 
Or clamber, boastful, up the craggy brink. 

Where the rent mountain frowns upon the flood 

That thrids that vale of beauty and of blood, 
Sad Wyoming ! The whispering past will tell, 

How by the silver-browed cascade we stood. 
And watched the sunlit waters as they fell 
(So youth drops in the grave) down in the shadowy dell. 

IV. 

And how we plunged in Lackawana's wave ; 

The wild-fowl startled, when to echo gay, 
In that hushed dell, glad laugh and shout we gave. 

Or on the shaded hill-side how we lay. 

And watched the bright rack on its beamy way, 
Dreaming high dreams of glory and of pride ; 

What heroes w^e, in freedom's deadliest fray ! 
How poured we gladly forth life's ruddy tide, 
Looked to our skyey flag, and shouted, smiled, and died ! 

V. 

Bright dreams — for ever past ! I dream no more ! 

Memory is now my being : her sweet tone 
Can, like a spirit-spell, the lost restore — 

My tried, my true, my brave, bright-thoughted one ! 

Few have a friend — and such a friend ! But none 



MY BROTHER. 189 

Have, in this bleak world, more than one ; and he, 

Ever mine own, mine only — he is gone ! 
He fell — as hope had promised — for the free : 
Our early dream, — alas ! it was no dream to thee ! 

VI. 

We were not near thee ! Oh ! I would have given, 

To pillow in my arms thy aching head. 
All that I love of earth or hope of heaven ! 

But strangers laid thee in thy prairie-bed; 

And though the drum was rolled, and tears were shed, 
'Twas not by those who loved thee first and best. 

Now waves the billowy grass above the dead ; 
The prairie-herd tread on thy throbless breast ; 
Woe 's me ! I may not weep above thy place of rest. 

VII. 

Now must I turn to stone ! Fair virtue, truth. 

Faith, love, were living things when thou wert here ; 

We shared a world, bright with the dew of youth. 

And spanned by rainbow thoughts. Our souls sincere 
Knew, in their love, nor selfish taint, nor fear : 

We would have smiled, and for each other died ! 
All this to us how real and how dear ! 

But now my bosom's welling founts are dried, 

Or pour, like ice-bound streams, a chilled and voiceless 
tide. 

VIII. 

Must it be ever thus ? The festive hour 

Is festive now no more ; for dimpling joy 
Smiles with thy smile ; and music's melting power 



190 MY BROTHER. 

Speaks to my soul of thee ! The struggling sigh 
Chokes the faint laugh ; and from my swimming eye, 

The tear-drop trickling, turns my cup to gall ; 
E'en as the hour that bade thee, brother, die, 

Mingles with all my days and poisons all. 

Mantling my life with gloom, as with a dead man's pall. 

IX. 

Oh, may not men, like strings that chord in tone, 

Mingle their spirits, and hereafter be 
One in their nature, in their being one ? 

And may I not be blended thus with thee ? 

Parted in body, brother, bore not we 
The self-same soul ! Ah me ! with restless pain. 

My halved spirit yearneth to be free, 
And clasp its other self : for I would fain. 
Brother, be with the dead, to be with thee again ! 



191 



THE WAIL OF THE TYROL. 



" When I visited the Tyrol, I asked a peasant why the people were all in mourning. 
' Look at our towns,' replied he ; * you see they are in ashes, and can you ask why we 
are in mourning V " 

I WEEP not for my father, although his silver hair, 

Far off on the silent battle-field, streams on the putrid air ; 

I mourn not for my bright-eyed boy, my beautiful and 

brave. 
Nor the gentle one whose cold arms clasp her treasure in 

the grave. 

I weep not for the trusty friends whom war has swept 

away. 
Though my gallant brothers all are dead, and my sisters, 

where are they ? 
And my home — my own loved cottage — the fairest in the 

vale. 
Its ashes sweep — yet I heed it not — on every passing 



I weep — but, stranger, selfish tears no Tyrol cheek can 

lave : 
Our hills were freedom's sunlit throne — they now are 

freedom's grave ; 



192 THE WAIL OF THE TYROL. 

My country's heart is gasping, her voice is a voice of wail ; 
Despair shrieks on each mountain-top, and death shrouds 
every vale. 

But we'll weep no more ! Why should we weep ? — Is the 
spirit of freedom dead ? 

We will change the hue of sorrow soon from the black to 
the bloody red ; 

And the shout of the free again shall ring from mountain- 
top to shore, 

And the peasant shall joy on his chainless hill, and the 
Tyrol wail no more ! 



193 



CHORUS IN (EDIPUS TYRANNUS. 



The beamy code ! Oh, be it mine 

To tread tlie path the just have trod ; 
And prove that stainless law divine, 

Its birthplace. Heaven — its father, God. 
Sprung not from man, to know decay, 
And pass, as he must pass, away ; 
Nor by oblivion rocked to slumber cold : 
'Tis instinct with a God, and never waxeth old. 

Insolent Pride, our country's blight, 

With gilded ills o'erpampered long ! 
It dashes from the cliffy height. 

To die the tortured waves among. 
But for that spirit firm and clear, 
To God and to our country dear — 
Ne'er may it faint ! To it, to me be given 
To know no hope, no pride, no patron, but in Heaven ! 

Who walk unawed in word and deed, 
And Truth and Faith a scoffing make ; 

Who scorn Thy sky-encircling creed — 
Their triumph evil doom o'ertake ! 
17 



194 CHORUS IN OEDIPUS TYRANNUS. 

If they who boast dishonest gain, 

And holy thoughts and things profane, 
Should triumph — where's the virtue-shielded heart, 
From which will fall, repulsed, wild passion's shattered 
dart? 

Never again the choral voice 

On wrong o'erthrown would pour the strain ; 
Never again Thy shrines rejoice, 

Thy hapless sons ne'er smile again — 
Did not th' eternal system prove 
Thy justice, purity, and love ; 
And leave the doomed, in guilty ruin hurled. 
The scorner now the scorned — the by-word of a world ! 



195 



LINES ON A BLIND BOY, 



SOLICITING CHARITY BY PLAYING ON HIS FLUTE. 



" Had not God, for some wise purpose, steeled 
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, 
And barbarism itself have pitied him." 

'Tis vain ! They heed thee not ! Thy flute's meek tone 

Thrills thine own breast alone. As streams that glide 

Over the desfert rock, whose sterile frown 

Melts not beneath the soft and crystal tide, 

So passes thy sweet strain o'er hearts of stone. 

Thine outstretched hands, thy lips unuttered moan. 

Thine orbs upturning to the darkened sky, 

(Darkened, alas ! poor boy, to thee alone !) 

Are all unheeded here. They pass thee by : — 

Away ! Those tears unmarked, fall from thy sightless 



Ay, get thee gone, benighted one ! Away ! 
This is no place for thee. The buzzing mart 
Of selfish trade, the glad and garish day, 
Are not for strains like thine. There is no heart 
To echo to their soft appeal : — depart ! 



196 LINES ON A BLIND BOY. 

Go seek the noiseless glen, where shadows reign, 
Spreading a kindred gloom ; and there, apart 
From the cold world, breathe out thy pensive strain : 
Better to trees and rocks, than heartless man, complain ! 

I pity thee ! thy life a live-long night ; 

No friend to greet thee, and no voice to cheer ; 

No hand to guide thy darkling steps aright. 

Or from thy pale face wipe th' unbidden tear. 

I pity thee ! thus dark and lone and drear ! 

Yet haply it is well. The Avorld from thee 

Hath veiled its wintry frown, its withering sneer, 

Th' oppressor's triumph, and the mocker's glee : 

Why, then, rejoice, poor boy — rejoice thou can'st not see ! 



197 



DEATH-^THE DELIVERER. 



Pale, trembling watcher, hj the dark grave's brink, 
Why dost thou falter ? Wherefore shouldst thou shrink ? 
Death is no foe ; and though — still, stealthy, near — 
His creeping footstep breaks upon thine ear ; 
Why shouldst thou weep ? With vain regrets away ! 
They cannot add, to lapsing life, a day. 
Sorrow and fear, themselves the shades of death, 
Hollow the cheek and check the struggling breath : 
Thus the frail snow-wreath, in the wintry ray, 
Shrinks from the sun, and weeps itself away. 
How vain the sordid fear, the miser skill. 
That o'er life's treasured fragments trembles still ; 
Trembles and weeps to mark how fast decays 
The wretched remnant of his tortured days. 
Death cannot come unless it come from High ; 
He mocks his God who meets it with a sigh. 
Ungrateful, too ! Life is a generous boon, 
Which claimed to-morrow, is not claimed too soon. 
'Tis Heaven's, not ours — the lease of a domain ; 
And is it well, when claimed by Heaven again. 
To yield reluctant our departing breath. 
And meet, with moody tears, God's steward — Death ? 
When earth was cursed, and life a dream was made. 
Where crime dogs crime, and shade still follows shade, 

17^ 



198 DEATH — THE DELIVERER. 

Death would have been the worshipped of the land, 

And man had perished by his own right hand : 

But from our hearts to drive this fell despair, 

The instinct dread of death was planted there. 

Now, when relenting nature, sent to save. 

Opens to woe-worn man the gentle grave. 

And points him there, his griefs and perils past, 

A refuge and a resting-place, at last ; 

What hopes, what joys, should swell his grateful breast 

To greet the couch that yields unbroken rest ! 

There let him sleep ! There all of us must sleep. 

Why o'er his tranquil pillow should we weep ? 

A sunlit mind, soul generous, bland, and brave ; 

My twinned heart slumbers in his distant grave ! 

Yet, o'er the blest and honoured, why repine ? 

His is the cradled calm — the tempest mine. 

Want cannot reach him, slander cannot harm ; 

No spurn can wound him, and no frown alarm ; 

No dreams of ill can haunt, no fears affright ; 

No foe can wrong him, and no friend can slight. 

Sleep ! thou whom ill can never more betide ! 

Sleep on ! would I were resting by thy side ! 

Why wouldst thou live ? For self ? Behold the past ! 
Such is the future. Wouldst thou have it last ? 
Like Arctic mountains, on whose hoary brow 
Each winter adds its growing weight of snow. 
Life numbers seasons by increasing cares. 
And, year by year, a heavier burthen bears. 
But, for thy friend, thou'lt welcome every woe ? 
A day, perchance, will make that friend thy foe. 
Or for thy child ? Live ; and his prayer will be. 
That death free thee from ill, and him from thee ! 



DEATH — THE DELIVERER. 199 

( 

Or for thy country ? Or thy race ? Away ! 
Sneers, scoffs, and wrongs, thy idle pains repay. 

Death comes too soon, 'tis said. The wise and brave 
No season deem too early for the grave ; 
In youth, mid-life, and age, the same our doom : 
The best has fled ; the worst has yet to come. 
The grave alone ne'er changes. On its breast, 
And there alone, we know untroubled rest ; 
Its kindness never wavers, wanes, decays : 
Death is the only friend that ne'er betrays. 

Man fears not age, yet shrinks from death. He knows 
That age is weariness and death repose ; 
Yet from a coward fear, he trembling prays 
To be accursed with length of wretched days ; 
To bear about a frame, convulsed with pains, 
Whose watery blood scarce swells its frigid veins ; 
Yet cling, with palsied grasp, to torture still. 
And deem death comes too soon, come when it will ! 

Death cannot sin. Each hour boasts now its crime ; 
And vice and folly mark the pace of time. 
How few improve with years ! E'en from our birth, 
Our roots strike deeper in the sordid earth. 
The grave ! nor guilt nor passion haunts that shore ; 
We sleep, untempted, there, and sin no more ! 

Is death a stranger to thee ? Look abroad ! 
'Tis on all life — the signet-mark of God ! 
Creation's pale-eyed offspring and its heir. 
Wherever matter is, lo ! death is there ! 
We gaze around, and see but death ; we tread. 
And every step reverberates o'er the dead ! 

Death, in thy boyhood, gambolled at thy side ; 
Was with thee still in manhood's strength and pride ; 



200 DEATH — THE DELIVERER. 

Mixed with tliy toils and revels, joy and woe : 
And wouldst thou meet him, as a stranger, now ? 

Mysterious minister ! whose gentle sway, 
Draws us from grief and gloom and guilt away ; 
May thy dread summons, whensoe'er 'tis sent, 
Meet the calm courage of a life well spent ; 
Take, without struggle, our expiring breath, 
And give that better life that knows no death. 



201 



ABSENCE. 



Lo ! on the Susquehanna's gentle tide, 

The twilight lingers : on the billow's breast, 
It fondly hangs and fondly is caressed ; 

And weeps and blushes like a parting bride. 

Mark, how the gay and gladdened river glows ! 
Now bank and wave and fondly bosomed isle 
Grow bright and beauteous in that glorious smile ; 

And now — 'tis past ! The stream in darkness flows. 

So sets the smile of love upon the tide 

Of a lone spirit : though its banks be gay, 
And many a bright scene woos it from its way, 

That smile is gone — it knows no joy beside — 
And flows in sadness on. So let it flow, 
Until that gentle smile again awake its glow ! 



202 



WAR. 



Thou blood-eclipse of nations, — darkling o'er 

Hopes that were lit by Heaven ! Why comest thou, 
When we are winning to the wan earth's brow 

The primal lustre which its Eden wore ? 

'Tis not, that, wolf-like, thou wilt lap up blood ; — 
For man is Death's : but, from thy gory hand. 
Leashed Crime and Madness, 'gainst a shrieking land, 

Are loosed unto their revel. Not for good, 

For virtue, nor for honour, does thy cry 

Ring through our shuddering valleys, where thy track 
Will leave heart, hearth-stone — silent, cold, and black. 

Why should earth's last, fond, fairest hope thus die ? 

Not for what now we are, but what may be. 

Leave us to peace and hope, God and our destiny ! 



203 



LINES. 



" Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." 

Psalms. 

Oh, child of sorrow, whosoe'er thou art, 
Why weep an earthly, evanescent ill ? 

Why clasp a dead hope to thy aching heart ; 
And, though it chill thee, love and clasp it still ? 

What, at the best, are life's close-cherished joys, 
But bubbles bursting on a breaking wave ; 

Flowers which the canker or the storm destroys, — 
Gauds for an hour — and garlands for the grave ! 

It not beseems us, rebels, then, to turn 
And weep the quenching of a fire-fly joy ; 

Accusing Heaven, thus murmuring to mourn 
A faded bliss that was but born to die. 

What though one thorn, upon thy pathway thrown, 
Hath stayed thy careless step ? Pause not to weep 

A thousand waiting duties call thee on. 

And, in thy path, a thousand pleasures sleep. 



204 LINES. 

Pleasures that shine not only to betray ; 

But smiles of well-spent days — the light and love, 
Radiance and rapture of that Star of Day, 

That beams, with grace and glory, from above. 



205 



BYRON. 



Spirit of gloom, whose meteoric glare 

Gleamed o'er the darkness of an erring path, 
And lit its horrors into heightened wrath. 

Laying the shades of shrinking terrors bare ! 

Sad was thy rare prerogative. Thy ken 

Pierced the dim confines of the shadowy sphere 
Where, dusk and towering, phantom forms appear, 

Unseen by fainter eyes of feebler men. 

Such was thy commune : was it strange that thou 
Shrank from the dwarfish race of common thought ; 
And, with a haught, unhallowed daring, sought 

The shoreless ocean of forbidden woe ? 

Thy mind a mystery in its dark unrest — 

The tortured cloud that palls the torn volcano's breast ! 



18 



206 



HILLSIDE MORALITIES. 



" Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in everything." 

Boy, through our creviced logs the morning's glow 
Flickers, like love's first blush, upon thy brow ; 
Dreaming, thou smilest. Up ! Day is on the hill ; 
Glad Winter calls — glad, bright, but shrewish still. 

I'm with thee, grandsire. Bright, indeed ! Yon fawn 
By the wood drooping — mottled like the dawn : — 
I'll fire ! 

Forbear ! Thy matin prayer — its breath 
Still warms thy lip : wouldst close it with a death ? 
Meek orphan, on life's wilderness astray, 
Sinless, be sorrowless ; thou'rt saved ; away ! 
On, boy ! The ice-crisped snow, beneath our tread, 
Like a court promise, breaks. How dim and dead, 
In the gray dawn, seems nature — like a nun 
Whose cloistered paleness never knows the sun. 

Wend we unto the ledge ? 

Ay, seek the height 
Where the snow dazzles in the sun's first light. 



HILLSIDE MORALITIES. 207 

As the world's love, 'tis cold : and such the fate 
Of minds above a laggard age elate ; 
Heaven-kissed and brightening o'er the world below, 
Cheerless, they glitter in their glorious woe. 

Meseems, thy lore is churlish as the day, 
That mocks, not melts, the winter with its ray. 
A plague upon this path ! The yielding snow 
Slides 'neath my foot. 

Ay, boy, thou' It find it so 
In every path ambition climbs : for still 
Receding triumphs mock the mounting will. 
Half that we win is loss : we vainly brave 
Life's snows, to find naught certain — but the grave. 

Grandsire, I love the snow ; and oft have stood 
To watch it struggling through the tangled wood. 
The silent forest, rustling low, awakes. 
As on the sere leaves gently fall the flakes. 

Gently ! So drop, from charity perfumed, 
Wise words and kind, to wretches famine-doomed ; 
It spreads, demure, o'er woe its snowy pall, 
Fine words — no more ! — that freeze where'er they fall. 

Here the white bosom of fair Wyoming 
Melts into other graces. Yonder spring. 
The mountain's life-stream, warm from breasts of snow, 
(Such, in fate's winter, friendship's gush and glow,) 
Blushes and smiles, as if the flowers of June 
Looked in its depths and listened to its tune ; — 
That stream, its sedgy channel choked with dead, 
Once dyed, with blood, the emerald meadow red. 



208 HILLSIDE MORALITIES. 

And such is war— the drunkenness of gore ! 
Oh, be its hell-nursed madness known no more ! 
For guiltier, ghastlier djes than blood-stains, start 
In the hot fountain of the upstirred heart : 
Lust, hate, a God dethroned, a world undone, 
These fill and fester in that Phlegethon ; 
Till in its depths a fiend would shriek to trace 
The heightened horrors of his mirrored face. 

Behold yon pine. 

Green boughs weighed down by snow ; 
An old man's sorrows on a young man's brow : 
Alas ! for him — his pangs no tongue hath told — 
Whose winter blasts him, ere his heart is old ! 

The branches crash and fall. A godlike will, 
Torn thus its glories, towers in verdure still ; 
O'erladen, crushed, its boughs to earth are given ; 
Its lofty brow still looks and smiles to Heaven. 

Turn we — the mountain reached — to scan the vale. 

Fans there a lovelier land the summer gale ? 
Spangled with towns, with happy hamlets blessed, 
How sweetly sleeps it on the mountain's breast ! 
Its fields — whose riches, like good acts untold. 
Rest till the smiles of Heaven their meed unfold ; 
Its cottage-homes, whose smoke now mounts on high. 
Like good men's prayers, to mingle with the sky ; 
Its river, lingering long, that loves to dwell 
By spreading mead, dim glen, and bosky dell, 



HILLSIDE MORALITIES. 209 

And wheresoe'er its willing waters wind, 
Leaves, like a well-spent life, a joy behind ; — 
Oh, who can view nor bend before His throne 
Who made a land so bright — our own — our own ! 

How still the scene ! 

Calm as the just man's sleep ! 
Nor bee, nor bird ; save where the ravens sweep, 
With heavy wing, across the vale, or croak, 
Like patriots out of place, from yonder oak. 
The ice-bound brook, whose frolic life was spent 
With birds and flowers that to its kisses bent, 
Creeps silent and unseen ; like age its tide — 
Dwindled, but peaceful — spent, but purified. 
Thy summer past, may thus thy spirit's wave 
Seek, calm and pure, our common sea — the grave ! 

See, where, through cloven mountains crowned with 
snows. 
The queenly Susquehanna calmly flows. 

Once, in Time's youth, that rock-knit barrier stood 
Holding imprisoned the o'ergathered flood. 
Unstirred within its depths its terrors slept ; 
Its surface dimpled where the soft breeze swept : 
Till changed the scene. Arousing in its wrath. 
It swept the rock-ribbed mountain from its path ; 
Plucked forth its heart, and tossed, with Titan hand, 
Like down, the mighty fragments o'er the land ; 
Then leapt, with laugh of thunder, through the plain. 
And rushed, in frenzied freedom, to the main. 

18* 



210 HILLSIDE MORALITIES. 

Still the cleft heights scowl down with war-scarred brow, 

Eternal hate upon the flood below : 

Like severed loves still true, their heads they rear. 

For ever parted — yet for ever near. 

Approach the ledge. Those masses rudely hurled 

Might seem the ruins of some star-smit world. 

Rock upon rock, in lofty chaos thrown. 

Rugged as unpaid honesty, they frown. 

Like rank impoverished, scorn the happier vale ; 

And hang their bannered dwarf pines to the gale. 

A glen, mid nature's ruins ! 

Sad, but fair 
As a lone joy that shines upon despair. 
In summer here the ineffectual day 
Flecks not the mossed earth with a single ray ; 
A thousand winning wild-wood flowers here spring ; 
A thousand minstrels in the copsewood sing ; 
And far above us, on yon shaded height, 
A lonely fountain bubbles to the light. 
All joy and truth, it lapses through the glade, 
Basks in the sun or bickers in the shade ; 
Now warbling merrily, now murmuring low. 
It wanders, wildered, to the cliff's dark brow; 
Then, like a maiden wronged, awakes too late, — 
A startled wail has told the woods its fate ! 
Yet scarce that fate the Naiads would recall, 
So bright in tears, so lovely in its fall. 
Though winter's hand has stilled its voice of woe, 
Beneath that icy mask its sorrows flow ; 



HILLSIDE MORALITIES. ^ 211 

As, with the wretched, glassy smiles enwreath 
The studied brow, while vipers gnaw beneath. 

Bearded with icicles, the cliff its cheek 
Gives to the morning's kisses, bright and bleak. 
Trickling and freezing, as a miser's blood, 
The icy pendants hang o'er all the flood ; 
Pointing to earth, they glitter with the day ; 
Laugh in its smile — to melt beneath its ray. 
Thus pleasure, cold when brightest, — (such its worth !) 
Still points and tends and lengthens toward the earth ; 
Till, beneath Heaven's full eye, it weeps away, 
And melts and mingles with its kindred clay. 

Lo ! falls an icy mass from yonder tower, — 
Scattering from winter's crown a jewelled shower. 
Brittle as earthly trust in fortune's shacje. 
It sinks upon the breast of the cascade ; 
From cliff to cliff, it clatters to the ground, 
Spreading its diamond ruins all around. 
Grasp this. Thy pulpy hand is warm with youth. 
Closer ! As close as conscience clasps the truth ! 
Enough : — the glittering toy you vainly seize. 
Ungrateful ! Mark, it melts not, though you freeze. 
Learn, thence, this lesson. Love will bear each ill, — 
All that life knoweth, — but the clasped heart's chill ! 
What are want — woe ? the loss of beauty — fame ? 
The true heart laughs at all — and loves the same : 
But love will die when it, unloved, grows old ; 
The heart that clasps but coldness must turn cold. 



212 



TO ROXANA. 



Bless thee, mine own gentle claugliter ! 

Heaven be round thee, now and aje ! 
Pure and bright as prattling water, 

Dimpling with the smile of day, 
Be thy life alway ! 

But the stream, my gentle daughter. 

Hurries from the fount away ; 
With a laugh, like thine, the water. 

Mid the flowers, in frolic play, 
Lingering, loves to stray. 

It must on ! The mighty ocean 
Calls each wavelet wild to come ; 

Every drop, with ceaseless motion, 
Wheresoe'er awhile it roam. 
Hears — and hastens home ! 

Thus, my fond and fondly cherished, 

Runs the stream of life away ; 
Whether mid flower-hopes, pale and perished. 

Or in rosiest meads, it stray, 
Who the stream can stay ? 



TO ROXANA. 213 

Such life's current : — be its water 

Ever pure enough to throw 
Back to Heaven, my gentle daughter — 

Wheresoe'er the stream should flow — 
God's own, earliest glow ! 



214 



THE DECLARATION. 



WRITTEN ON A PICTURE. 



And he hath spoken ! Knew I not he would ? 

Though flitting fears, like clouds o'er lakes, would cast 
Shadows o'er true love's trust. The tear-drop stood 

In his dark eye ; he trembled. But 'tis past, 
And I am his, he mine. Why trembled he ? 

This fond heart knew he not ; and that his eye 
Governed its tides, as doth the moon the sea ? 

And that with him, for him, 'twere bliss to die ?' 
Yet said I nought. Shame on me, that my cheek 

And eye my hoarded secret should betray ! 
Why wept I ? And why was I sudden weak, 

So weak his manly arm was stretched to stay ? 
How like a suppliant God he looked ! His sweet. 

Low voice, heart-shaken, spoke — and all was known ; 
Yet, from the first, I felt our souls must meet, 

Like stars that rush together and shine on. 



215 



THE STRICKEN. 



" Turn thou unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and in misery." 

Psalms. 



Heavy ! Heavy ! Oh, my heart 
Seems a cavern deep and drear, 

From whose dark recesses start, 
Flutteringly, like birds of night, 

Throes of passion, thoughts of fear, 
Screamino; in their flio;ht : 

Wildly o'er the gloom they sweep. 
Spreading a horror dim — a woe that cannot weep ! 

Weary ! Weary ! What is life 

But a spectre-crowded tomb ? 
Startled with unearthly strife — 

Spirits fierce in conflict met. 
In the lightning and the gloom. 

The agony and sweat ; 
Passions wild and powers insane. 
And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean 



pain ! 



Gloomy — gloomy is the day ; 

Tortured, tempest-tost the night ; 



216 THE STRICKEN. 

Fevers that no founts allay — 

Wild and wildering unrest — 
Blessings festering into blight — 
A gored and gasping breast ! 
From their lairs what terrors start, 
At that deep earthquake voice — the earthquake of the 
heart ! 

Hopeless ! Hopeless ! Every path 

Is with ruins thick bestrewn ; 
Hurtling bolts have fallen to scathe 

All the greenness of my heart ; 
And I now am Misery's own — 

We never more shall part ! 
My spirit's deepest, darkest wave 
Writhes with the wrestling storm. Sleep ! Sleep ! The 
grave ! The grave ! 



217 



SONNET. 



TO A YOUNG INVALID ABROAD. 



Health unto tliee ! 'Twill come, though coy and slow : 
Thou canst not die, before I cease to live. 
Are we not one ? Ay, brother, boughs that give 
Their verdure from one trunk, and cannot know 
A life-drop but from thence ? The topmost bough 
Still withers first : whilst mine is green on high, 
I feel — and fear not — that thou canst not die ! 
Would that my life's blood, warm and healthful now, 
Were welling in thy veins — and I like thee ! 
'Twere joy to suffer for thee, could I hear 
Thy light laugh, as of old, ring in my ear : 
So thou wert happy what aught else to me ? 
An angel-ward our mother's prayers have set 
Around thee. Courage then ! Thou'lt kiss her pale cheek 
yet! 



19 



218 



TO A BACKWARD LOVER. 



A TRUCE with tliis puling, this fearing and fooling ! 
Such ague-struck awe, boy, is none of love's schooling. 
No blushing and flying, no languishing, sighing : 
She wants a stout wooer, not one that is dying. 
Be colder or bolder, your love or fear smother ; 
Be saint or be sinner, and leave her or win her ; 
Yes, leave her and let her be won by another ! 

But why should you lack her ? You know not a fairer. 
Attend her, attack her ; and win her, and wear her. 
When your passion you name, give it language of flame, 
But let her in dreamy faith know not your aim. 
But still breathe your woe, in a voice soft and low, 
For thus the heart's nearest drops ever outflow. 
Be the tones of your prayer — she can never refuse it — 
Like the harp's of the air, when the fond zephyr woos it. 
And look in her eyes, they are love's truest book, 
As star upon star, in their skyey love, look. 
Press her hand to your lip, and let your arm haste 
Unnoticed to slip round her delicate waist ; 
Then your cheek touches hers, how it crimsons its tint ! 
And if lips do not mingle, the demon is in 't ! 



TO A BACKWARD LOVER. 219 

But if she's resistful, wliy turn you then tristful ; 
Woman for sorrow is wilful and wistful. 
Weep you an ocean, I warrant 'twill move her, 
For earth has no spell like the tears of a lover. 

If she still spurn thee, relentless and bitter, 
Why swear she's a Hecate, and laugh at and quit her ! 



220 



THE ROSE AND THE DEW-DROP. 



She bent o'er her rose, for the night gloom had gone, 

And the dew-drop that blushed in its beautiful breast 
Caught the dawn's rising radiance, and trembled and shone, 

As the fresh morning's zephyr its petals carest. 
" Like the dew-drop," she said, '^ in the heart of this flower. 

Is love when it first round the fond bosom twines. 
And catches the bright tints of life's early hour. 

And joys as it trembles, and shrinks as it shines." 

Again she was there ; but the sun from on high 

Looked down with a glowing and passionate glare ; 
Ah the dew-drop was gone ! and the rose, 'neath his eye, 

Drooped sadly and faintly, but fragrantly, there. 
" And thus, ever thus, when its morning is gone. 

Is the fate of the heart," she exclaimed with a sigh, 
" And the mild joys of love which bloom bright in the dawn. 

In the fierce heat of passion, droop, wither and die !" 



221 



MUTTRA. 



In the Orient, where the summer 

Wanders hand in hand with spring, 
And together flower and fruitage. 

On the same branch sway and swing ; 
Where neglected Nature rises, 

With an unpruned affluence, o'er 
Towers and temples, ruin's trophies, 

Gladsome once, but gay no more ; 
Where the desert wanderer pauses, 

While his wondering eye is cast 
On the mighty, monumental 

Glories of an unknown past ; — 
There are scenes still grand and gorgeous, 

That have mocked a world's decay ; 
Art and Nature, great and graceful ; 

And the brightest is Muttra ! 

Over Muttra sunset sporteth. 
Gilding mosque and minaret ; 

Fondly, fitfully, it playeth. 
Lingering as if loth to set. 

Twilight pauseth, like a lover 
Forced to go, yet fain to stay. 

19^ 



222 MUTTRA. 

Wonder not ! The bright sun seeth 

Naught so lovely as Muttra. 
Castled elephants are kneeling ; 

Princely pilgrims crowd the way ; 
For, what mosque in Ind so holy 

As the mosque of bright Muttra ! 

But one princely form is absent, 

Hassan, of the shadowed brow, 
Hollow cheek and step unsteady, — 

Hapless Hassan, where art thou ? 
By a new grave sits the mourner. 

By a grave unmarked and low ; 
And his cheek, so pale and tearless. 

Tells a tale of wordless woe. 
" Wherefore weep'st thou?" spake a stranger 

" In whose name com'st thou to me ?" 
" In His name who came to save us — 

Save from sin and set us free." 

" Blessed thou ! The hour, too, blessed ! 

Christian, in the grave below 
Sleeps the saint who taught salvation : 

Hence my weeping — hence my woe. 
She, too, brought — a holy teacher — 

Looks and words the heart to stir ; 
By her side I knelt and worshipped — 

Worshipped God, and worshipped her ! 
Great the sin and great the sorrow ! 

Absent, whiles, upon the wave, 
I returned ; — she was in Heaven : — 

Leaving me her faith — and grave ! 



M U T T R A. 223 

Christian, blest the star that led thee 

To the towers -of bright Muttra ! 
Aid me to the Christian's Heaven ; 

Helen beckons me away !" 

"Helen, say'st thou?" — quoth the stranger — 

" Art thou Abon Hassan, then, 
Prince, that chose to be His servant 

Rather than the lord of men ? 
They have wronged thee, for my daughter, 

Thy betrothed, was borne away — 
To escape thy kindred's vengeance — 

From the towers of bright Muttra." 
" Lives my love ?" — and quick the crimson, 

Like a sunset, flushed his brow — 
" Heaven, I thank thee ! Father, pity ; 

Let me see my Helen now !" 
" Helen !" — and the close boughs parted, 

And a light form, bright as day. 
Darted towards him. There were happy, 

Happy hearts in bright Muttra ! 



224 



TO A SUPERANNUATED STATESMAN. 



Why should life that which makes it life, outlive ? 
Or o'erworn greatness babble on the stage, 
When it can act no more ? Lucullus' age 

Drivelled in pleasures which no pleasure give : 

And the fifth Charles, the marble-hearted, he, 
Pale Europe's master, 'neath a dull-eyed monk, 
Mumbled his life out : Cromwell, whose frown sunk 

Into the heart of nations, lived to be 

A gibbering trembler at a phantom fear : 
Thus is life's harvest scattered to the wind ! 
And thou, the current of whose mighty mind 

Floated an empire, flutterest in the sphere 

Of triflers, ballad-mongers, insects small 
That play in party's blaze — thy noblest end 
The praise of fools. Oh, death had been thy friend 

Had he come years agone ! Thus through its wall 

Of cliffy heights, through valleys radiant, flies 
The rushing Rhine : but not to meet its bride — 
The ocean : wasted, shorn its power and pride, 

Lost in dull swamps, and wrapt in fogs — it dies. 



SONNET. 

TO ARABELLA, SLEEPING. 



When the world wearieth then the sun doth set, 

And the dew kisseth sweet good-night to earth ; 
When the soul fainteth and would fain forget, 

Then sleep, the shadow of God's smile, comes forth. 
Gently, with downy darkness, and the dew 

Of love from Heaven ; and with the quickening rest 
That hardly slumbers — star-thoughts beaming through 

The dreamy dimness on the rippling breast. 
Soft be that dew upon thy breast to-night ! 

Gentle thy dreams as zephyr to the flower ! 
Pure as the prayer that riseth as I write, 

To hover round thee through the midnight hour ! 
Till morning wake — as if for thee alone — 
And meet a brow as bright — 'tis lovelier — than his own. 



22G 



ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR. 



Quid me mortuum miserum vocas, qui te sum multo felicior ? aut quid acerbi mihi 
putas contigisse ? 
"Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail 
Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, 
Dispraise, or blame, nothing but well and fair, 
And what may quiet us in a death so noble." 

Milton. 

Weep not for him ! The Thracians wisely gave 
Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave. 
'Tis misery to be born — to live — to die : 
Even he who noblest lives, lives but to sigh. 
The right not shields from wrong, nor worth from woe, 
Nor glory from reproach ; he found it so. 
Not strong life's triumphs, not assured its truth ; 
Ev'n virtue's garland hides an aspic tooth. 
His glorious morn was past, and past his noon ; — 
Life's duty done, death never comes too soon. 
Then cast the dull grave's gloomy trappings by ! 
The dead was wise, was just — nor feared to die. 

Weep not for him. Go, mark his high career ; 
It knew no shame, no folly, and no fear ; 
More blest than is man's lot his blameless life. 
Though tossed by tempests and though torn by strife. 
'Neath the primeval forest's towery pride. 
Virtue and Danger watched his couch beside ; 



ON THE DEATH OP GENERAL TAYLOR. 227 

This taught him purely, nobly to aspire, 

That gave the nerve of steel and soul of fire. 

No time his midnight lamps — the stars — could dim ; 

His matin music was the cataract's hymn ; 

His Academe the forest's high arcade — 

(To Numa thus Egeria blessed the shade ;) 

With kindling soul, the solitude he trod — 

The temple of high thoughts — and spake with God : 

Thus towered the man — amid the wide and wild — 

And Nature claimed him as her noblest child. 

Nurtured to peril, lo ! the peril came, 
To lead him on, from field to field, to fame. 
'Twas met as warriors meet the fray they woo : 
To shield young Freedom's wildwood homes he flew ; 
And — fire within his fortress, foes without. 
The rattling death-shot and th' infuriate shout — 
He, where the fierce flames burst their smoky wreath, 
And war's red game raged madliest, toyed with death ; 
Till spent the storm, and Victory's youngest son 
Glory's first fruits, his earliest wreath, had won. 

Weep not for him, whose lustrous life has known 
No field of fame he has not made his own : 
In many a fainting clime, in many a war, 
Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot's car. 
Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe 
By oceanic Mississippi's flow ; 
Or where the southern swamps, with steamy breath, 
Smite the worn warrior with no warrior's death : 
Or where, like surges on the rolling main. 
Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain ; 
Dawn — and the field the haughty foe o'erspread, 
Sunset — and Rio Grande's waves run red : 



228 ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR. 

Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey 
Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray ; 
Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak 
How frail the fortress where the heart is weak ; 
How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy, 
Men sternly knit and firm to do or die : 
Or where, on thousands thousands crowding, rush 
(Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush ; 
The long day paused on Buena Vista's height. 
Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright ; 
Till angry Freedom, hovering o'er the fray. 
Swooped down, and made a new Thermopylae : 
In every scene of peril and of pain, 
His were the toils, his country's was the gain. 
From field to field, and all were nobly won, 
He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on : 
New stars rose there — but never star grew dim 
While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him. 

The heart is ne'er a castaway ; its gift 
Falls back, like dew to earth — the soul's own thrift 
Of gentlest thoughts by noblest promptings moved : 
He loved his country, and by her was loved. 
To him she gave herself, a sacred trust. 
And bade him leave his sword to rest and rust ; 
And, awed but calm, nor timid nor elate. 
He turned to tread the sandy stairs of state. 
Modest, though firm ; decided, cautious, clear ; 
Without a selfish hope, without a fear ; 
Reverent of right, no warrior now, he still 
Cherished the nation's chart, the people's will ; 
Hated but Faction with her maniac brand, 
And loved, with fiery love, his native land. 



ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR. 229 

E-ose there a foe dared wrong in her despite ? 
How eager leaped his soul to do her right ! 
Her flag his canopy, her tents his home — 
The world in arms — why, let the armed world come ! 
Thus loved he, more than life, and next to Heaven, 
The broad, bright land to which that life was given ; 
And, loving thus and loved, the nation's pride, 
Her hope, her strength, her stay — the patriot died ! 

Weep not for him — though hurried from the scene ; 
'Twill be earth's boast that such a life has been. 
Taintless his truth as Heaven ; his soul sincere 
Sparkled to-day, as mountain brooklets clear. 
O'er every thought high honour watchful hung, 
As broods the eagle o'er her eyried young. 
His courage, in its calmness, silent, deep ; 
But strong as fate — Niagara in its sleep : 
But w^hen, in rage, it burst upon the foe — 
Niagara leaping to the gulf below : 
His clemency, the graceful bow that, thrown 
O'er the wild wave. Heaven lights and makes its own. 
His was a spirit simple, grand and pure ; 
Great to conceive, to do and to endure ; 
Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child, 
Rich in love's affluence, merciful and mild. 
His sterner traits, majestic and antique, 
Rivalled the stoic Roman or the Greek ; 
Excelling both, he adds the Christian name, 
And Christian virtues make it more than fame. 

To country, youth, age, love, life — all were given ! 
In death, she lingered between him and Heaven ; 
Thus spake the patriot in his latest sigh, 
''My duty done — 1 do not fear to die.'' 

20 



230 ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR. 

Weep not for him ; but for his country, tossed 
On Faction's surges ; " think not of the lost, 
But what 'tis ours to do."* The hand that stayed, 
The pillar that upheld, in dust are laid ; 
And Freedom's tree of life, whose roots entwine 
Thy fathers' bones — will it e'er cover thine ? 
Root, rind, and leaf, a traitor tribe o'erspread ; 
Worms sap its trunk, and tempests bow its head. 
But the land lives not, dies not, in one man, 
Were he the purest lived since life began. 
Upon no single anchor rests our fate ; 
Millions of breasts engird and guard the state. • 
Yet o'er each true heart, in the nation's night, 
Will Taylor's memory rise, a pillared light ; 
His lofty soul will prop the patriot's pride, 
His virtues animate, his wisdom guide. 
Faction, whose felon fury, blind and wild, 
Would rend our land, as Circe tore her child. 
In sordid cunning or insensate wrath. 
Scattering its quivering limbs along her path — 
Even Faction, at his name, will cower away, 
And, shrieking, shrinking, shield her from the day. 
Then, up to duty ! true, as he was true ; 
As pure, as calm, as firm to bear and do ; 
Nerve every patriot power, knit every limb, 
And up to duty : but weep not for him ! 

* "Non quos amisimus, sed quantum lugere par sit cogitemus." 

Cicero. 



231 



THE LONE ONE. 



They told the soldier's widowed bride 

Her lord a laurelled death had won : 
" Oh, would," she shrieked, " we too had died, 
My child, for we are lone !" 

Desolate and lone. 
Her heart was with her dead ! 

His boy still o'er her sorrows smiled. 
Life's only light, and all her own : 
Death from her heart-clasp tore her child — 
All dark, and all alone ! 

Desolate and lone. 
She prayed to join her dead. 

The stricken pressed her sunken brow, 

Her pale lips breathed a broken moan ; 
She sank — her heart had burst — and now 
She is no more alone ! 

Nevermore alone. 
She sleeps beside her dead. 



232 



FEEEDOM. 



I. 
A SAGE whose channelled brow was seamed with scars, 

Sat in the wavy and sun-spotted shade 
Of an old wood ; and of his woes and wars 

Talked to his boy, whose heaving bosom made 
An echo to each word : yet, half afraid 

And half afire, he listened 'neath the oak, 
Wondering why men should redden thus the blade. 

" For freedom, boy ! The tyrant's bonds we broke !" 
" But what is freedom ?" Thus, or somewhat thus, he spoke. 

II. 

Whence but from God can spring the burning love 

Of nature's liberty? Why does the eye 
Watch, raised and raptured, the bright racks that rove. 

Heaven's free-born, frolic in the harvest sky ? 
The wind which bloweth where it listeth, why 

Hath it a charm ? Why love we thus the sea, 
Lordless and limitless ? Or the cataract cry, 

With which Niagara tells eternity 
That she is chainless now, and will for ever be ! 



FREEDOM. 233 

III. 

Or why, in breathing nature, is the slave 

That ministers to man, in lowly wise. 
Or beast or bird, a thing of scorn ? Where wave 

The prairie's purple seas, the free, horse flies, 
With mane wide floating, and wild-flashing eyes, 

A wonder and a glory ; o'er his way, 
The ne'er-tamed eagle soars and fans the skies. 

Floating, a speck upon the brow of day. 
He scans the unbourned wild — and who shall say him nay ? 

IV. 

If Freedom thus o'er earth, sea, air, hath cast 

Her spell, and is Thought's idol, man may well, 
To star-crowned Sparta in the glimmering past. 

Turn from the gilded agonies which swell 
Wrong's annals. For the kindling mind will dwell 

Upon Leonidas and Washington, 
And those who for God's truth or fought or fell. 

When kings whose tombs are pyramids, are gone. 
Justice and Time are wed : the eternal truth lives on. 

V. 

Ponder it, freemen ! It will teach that Time 

Is not the foe of Right ; and man may be 
All that he pants for. Every thought sublime 

That lifts us to the right where truth makes free, 
Is from on high. Pale Virtue ! Yet with thee 

Will gentle Freedom dwell, nor dread a foe ! 
Self-governed, calm and truthful, why should she 

Shrink from the future ? 'Neath the last sun's glow, 
Above expiring Time, her starry flag shall flow ! 

20* 



234 FREEDOM. 

VI. 

For, even with shrinking woman, is the Right 

A cherished thought. The hardy hordes which threw 
Kome from the crushed world's empire, caught the light 

That led them from soft eyes, and never knew 
Shame, fear nor fetter. The stern Spartan drew, 

From matrons weeping o'er each recreant son, 
His spirit ; and our Indian thus will woo 

The stake — his forest Portia by — smile on, 
Till the death-rattle ring and the death-song is done. 

VII. 

Fame is man's vassal ; and the Maid of France, 

The shepherd heroine, and Padilla's dame. 
Whose life and love and suflfering mock romance. 

Are half forgotten. Corday — doth her name 
Thrill you ? Why, Brutus won eternal fame : 

Was his, a Roman man's, a bolder blow 
Than that weak woman's ? For the cause the same — 

Marat a worse than Caesar. Blood may flow, 
In seas for Right, and ne'er a holier offering know ! 

VIII. 

But nature's freedom is the wolf's that prowls. 

In coward strength, the forest thorough : all 
The weak are made his prey ; he flies with howls 

From stronger tyrants. And 'tis thus the thrall — 
The heaviest, bloodiest, basest that can fall 

On man — the thrall of lawless, mindless power, 
The anarch-god's, is hateful. To its call. 

In the red revel of its drunken hour, 
Freedom is deaf : not hers its deeds, nor hers its dower. 



FREEDOM. 235 

IX. 

Freedom is guarded justice ; that which gives 

To man a fortressed chart, beneath the sway 
Of all, 'neath just laws, justly dealt. Man strives 

Vainly to find such freedom in the gray 
And shame-encircled past. The cradle play 

Of infant Freedom rent the snaky fold 
Of wrong : but in her proud, crime-crimsoned day, 

How hath she fallen ! High-thoughted hearts grow cold 
Pondering the tale of Right with life-drops bought and sold. 

X. 

Yet even from Freedom's embers, will her fire 

Sparkle a ray upon her crumbling dome, 
To light the purer soul that dares aspire 

And mocks the worst. And thus when robber Rome 
Became the Caesar's plaything, still were some. 

Mid crouching crowds, a freeman's grave to fill. 
Entombed, her spirit haunts her hallowed home. 

Ruin may crush her realms ; but glory will, 
As from orb-shattered stars, shine from each fragment still. 

XI. 

The desert rock may yield a liberty — 

The eagle's ; but in cities, guarded Right 
Finds her first home. Amid the many, she 

Gives union, strength, and courage. In the night 
Of time, from leagured walls, her beacon light 

Flashed o'er the world. And Commerce, whose white wing 
Makes the wide desert of the ocean bright, 

Is Freedom's foster nurse ; and though she fling 
Her wealth on many a shore, on none where fetters ring ! , 



236 FREEDOM. 



XII. 

And wealth diffused is Freedom's child and aid. 

Give me, — such is her prayer — nor poverty 
Nor riches ! For while penury will degrade, 

A heaped-up wealth corrupts. But to the free 
The angel hope is Knowledge. It may be, 

Has been, a despot ; for, with unspread glow, 
Truth is a rayless sun, whose radiance we, 

However bright it burn, nor feel, nor know. 
'Tis power ; and power unshared is curst, and works but woe ! 

XIII. 

Make it an atmosphere that all may breathe, 

And all are free. Each struggle in the past 
That Eight smiles o'er, was truthful. Laurels wreathe 

All who, — as when our country rose — have cast 
Oppression down ; that act, all time, will last, 

The Ararat of History, on whose brow • 
The sacred ark of Liberty stood fast. 

Sunned in the truth ; while the tame, turbid flow 
Of Slavery's deluge spread o'er all the world below. 

XIV. 

And oft the electric flame that fires the heart 

Of a true people, flashes fiercely through 
A cause how trivial ! Such Hipparchus' part ; 

Lucretia's fate ; Virginius', when he slew 
His child, and in her blood devoted to 

The infernal gods the tyrant. Right represt — 
With men to Nature and her teachings true — 

Will heave with the deep earthquake's fierce unrest, 
Then fling, with fiery strength, the mountain from its breast. 



FREEDOM. 237 

XV. 

What, or that lifts the heart, or lights the eye, 

Or makes the hearth-stone happy, can there be, 
That Freedom gives not ? Mercy cannot sigh 

Above her truth-led triumphs. And yet she 
Owns but a few bright spots in history ! 

Her name — a spell — is used by all who crave 
A guilty power. They steal her livery ; 

And, loud on lip of tyrant and of slave. 
Her praises ring above her ruin and her grave ! 

XVI. 

But where she dwells, in love and truth, her train 

Is thronged with blessings ; and a nation's brow 
She garlands with the pride that knows not stain ; 

The right that will not sin, and cannot bow. 
He who would chain the sea-wave, did not know 

That the free soul is freer than its tide. 
With millions to be met — come weal or woe — 

Each heart rears a Thermopylae of pride : 
And thus, in every age, have patriots smiled and died ! 

XVII. 

Labour on Freedom waits, (what hope to cheer 

The slave to toil ?) the labour blithe, whose day 
Knows not a want, whose night knows not a tear ; 

And wealth ; and high-browed science ; and the play 
Of truth-enamoured mind, that mocks the sway 

Of court or custom ; beauty-loving art ; 
And all that scatters flowers on life's drear way. 

Hope, courage, pride, joy, conscious mirth upstart, 
Beneath her smile, to raise the mind and glad the heart. 



238 



FREEDOM. 



XVIII. 

Yet have free states, like comets, only flashed 

O'er history's night — to pass away ! And why ? 
Vainly the open foe of Freedom gashed 

Her side. But peopling, with false Gods, their sky, 
They sank until their land became a sty, 

Stygian with moral darkness. Heart and mind 
Debased, dark passions rose, and with red eye 

Rushed to their revel ; until Freedom, blind 
And maniac, sought the rest the suicide would find. 

XIX. 

And is this all ? Alas, amid the tombs 

Of nations, we must read the fate of those 
Who made the earth a glory ! Time consumes. 

Like Saturn, his own boasts. Of all that rose. 
Nations, the stars of history, not one throws, 

(Save our beloved), o'er hope's path a ray — 
Not one ! For vampyre-like, fair Freedom's foes 

Have, in her slumber, sucked her life away, 
And left her throbless corse to carrion birds a prey! 

XX. 

The flatterer and the friend of Freedom now, 

In her dark hour, are known ; one as the sand 
Changed by each change of error's ebb and flow ; 

The other rock, that, by the stormy strand. 
Flings back the wave. And yet, in every land, 

Cato is praised — and perishes ! Whilst he 
Who soothes the crowd, (so says the past,) will stand 

Amid a people's fall. They bend the knee, 
And while they link their bonds, shout forth that they are 
free ! 



FREEDOM. 239 

XXI. 

Yet falter not, nor fear, nor rashly deem 

That states free-born and nursed by virtue, know, 
Like man, a meteor life, a mist, a dream, 

A thing of youth, age, death. Is God the foe 
Of man, self-governed man ? Oh, think not so ! 

Orb answers orb with beams ; and thus is light 
God's tribute : o'er the soul's eternal glow 

Would He, while clouds are lustrous, spread a night ? 
On His own image fling a baseness and a blight ? 

XXII. 

Then think not — 'twere a traitor thought ! — our own, 

Like free states foregone, is a bright leaf torn 
From Time's dark forest, on the wild gust thrown. 

To float awhile, by varying tempests borne, 
And sink, at last, the envying nations' scorn, 

In the eternal river. We will show 
That Truth, Right, Love, the stars of Freedom's morn, 

Hesper-like, glittering on her bright'ning brow. 
Clouded, perchance, awhile, will still for ever glow. . 

XXIII. 

Twin-born with Time was Freedom, when the soul, 

Shoreless and shining, met the earliest day : 
But o'er Time's tomb, — when passes by the scroll 

Of the scorched sky — she'll wing her radiant way, 
Freed from the traitor's taint, the tyrant's sway ; 

Chastened and bright, to other spheres will flee ; 
Sun her unruffled joys in Heaven's own ray, — 

Where all the crushed are raised, the just are free — 
Her light the living God — her mate eternity ! 



240 



ADDRESS. 



PREPARED FOR THE OPENING OF THE WALNUT STREET THEATRE, AND 
DELIVERED BY MISS CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 



Thanks, patrons, friends ! Oh, had my heart a tone, 
'Twould speak a welcome louder than your own ; 
That heart seeks warmer words, but seeks in vain : — 
Thanks and a welcome ! o'er and o'er again ! 
Here, after many a gallant, gay campaign, 
The Drama's wizard banner floats again. 
List ye with us ? Beneath its magic fold, 
No eye grows weary and no heart grows cold ; 
Its witcheries win the wise, the worn beguile. 
The thoughtless teach to think, the sad to smile. 
It is our province, and we pride our part. 
To give the head a lesson from the heart : 
Amid these favouring friends, we cannot fear 
The schoolman's censure or the cynic's sneer. 
No one need shrink, unless the drama press 
Some latent chord of guilty consciousness. 
The tainted well may shun her probing art, 
And break the mirror picturing the heart ; 



ADDRESS. 



241 



But "why should Virtue turn her timid gaze 
From where her merit meets its meed of praise ? 
List ye with us ? By you sustained, the stage 
Shall here renew its best and brightest age ; 
Genius, and taste, and wit, their light shall lend ; 
And Virtue hail the Drama as her friend. 
Here, from a world where rugged worth declines, 
And vice alone, like putrefaction, shines. 
The wise and good congenial joys shall find 
To swell the bosom and expand the mind. 

List ye with us ? What though brief clouds o'ercast ? 
The Drama still, while letters live, must last : 
No fate her eye can dim, her pulse can still ; 
While Art survives, she lives, and ever will. 
The Muse's morning star ! her gentle light 
Has latest shone to gild the muse's night. 
Her deathless wreath in Athens and in Rome, 
Crowned the young brow of Art, and decked her tomb ! 
Fear not ! For Genius consecrates the stage. 
Lives through all lettered time, and mocks at age. 
A soulless clod the earth — a desert shore — 
Where Sophocles is dumb, and Shakspeare shines no more ! 

List ye with us ? " We will !" your smiles reply ; 
" But who commands ?" Your humble servant — I ! 
" Led by a woman ! Treason, fire and fury !" 
It is the best of leading, I assure ye. 
Who of you all — now, pray be calm and candid — 
What hero here, would not be so commanded ? 
But stay ! No bold Boadicea here 
Heads her embattled legions in career : 
A sweeter duty mine ! To lead the train 
That smooth the wrinkles on the brow of pain ; 

21 



242 ADDRESS. 

To steal the slgli ; to light the generous glow ; 

To soothe the sorrowing with unreal woe ; 

To force the proud to bow, the mean to blush, 

And teach the ice-bound charities to gush ; 

Make Truth more truthful ; Faith more lovely fair ; 

Chasten tyrannic wrong and cheer down-trodden care. 

And last, not least, to win, by gentle arts, — 

What think ye ? Do not frown ! to win your hearts. 



243 



THE FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 



There's wisdom, music, poetry, 

In the prattle of a child, 
When the murmuring fountains of the soul 

First well forth bright and wild. 

I heard a girl, a gentle girl, 

Thus to her mother say : 
" How slow to-morrow is, mamma ! 

When comes to-morrow, pray?" 

" When you have slept and waked, my child, 

Then will to-morrow be." 
" So you have said, mamma, yet ne'er 

To-morrow came to me. 

"I've slept and waked, oft and again, 

And still it was to-day ; 
I've watched and watched for morrow, 

But it always flew away. 

'* You said that when to-morrow came, 
'Twould come so bright and gay ; 

I woke, and thought — sure, now 'tis here ! 
But still it was to-day." 



244 THE FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Alas, too early wise ! I hoped 
Bright years ere you would know, 

To-morrow spans the dark to-day, 
A cheating promise bow ! 

It is a fair and fleeting hope 
To gild our misery given : 

The only morrow bright and sure 
Is that which dawns in Heaven 1 



246 



SONNET. 



ON THE INVASION OF THE KOMAN KEPUBLIC. 



Is there no pulse left in that withered heart, 

To speak the earthquake throb that once was there, 
The throb that shook the world ? Still can ye bear 
The Roman name, nor die ? Camillus' part 
Can ye not act it o'er your cindered homes, 

Reddened, if need be, with your brothers' blood ? 
The past, with all its laurel-laden flood, 
Pours on the turbid Tiber, by the tombs 
Whose dust gives you the only life ye have. 

Up to the strife ! Rome once bred men ; and why 
Give not tomb, temple, trophy to the sky ; 
And, dying, make your Rome a Roman grave ? 
False France and leaden Austria cannot give 
A death not dearer than in chains to live. 



21* 



246 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG 
MARRIED LADY. 



And art thou dead ? The morn 
Of thy young, lovely life is palled ! A bough, 
Fresh and flower-laden, from existence torn — 
Oh, where art thou ! 

Love could not shield ; nor youth. 
Nor beauty, nor high gifts and hopes could save ! 
In all thy brightness, purity, and truth, 
Gone to the grave ! 

Heaven claimed its own. Each grace 
Of mind and heart had marked thee for the sky ; 
Foretold the angel beaming from thy face, 
That thou must die ! 

Thy memory, like a tone 
Of far-off music, clings around the heart ; 
Our souls still meet and mingle with thine own, 
Never to part ! 

Farewell awhile. We stay 
To rear for thee the bud that thou hast given ; 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MARRIED LADY. 247 

To guide and guard her on her sinless way 
To thee and Heaven. 

Farewell ! And till we meet, 
Like star-beams, where no parting comes, nor ill. 
Spirit of love and light, sister sweet, 
Be near us still ! 



248 



TO MAGGIE. 



The bonds that cross two graves make thee my daughter, 
Linking me to thee with the steel of death. 
The bud that bore thee, in her latest breath, 

When, like a sunset on the crystal water, 

Life flowed in light away, gave thee to me ; 
And mine thou art, and shalt be. Never fear : 
In weal or woe, no wrong shall come thee near, 

But through my bosom ; and to thine and thee 

My life is given. Light be o'er thy way ! 

Flowers on thy path ; and round thy gentle heart 
All thoughts and feelings, clustering kindly, start. 

To make thy youth as radiant as the day ! 

Time is not ever gentle : may it be 

Loving as mother's kisses unto thee. 



249 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



"Where is the King?" Thus spoke the sages, 

Seeking the Saviour from afar : 
" The Christ, the God, the Eock of Ages, 

Who hither led us with His star !" 

"Where is the King?" But star-forsaken, 
They search the palace-halls in vain ; 

That Star of Hope — its beams were breaking 
O'er a low hut on Bethlehem's plain. 

They saw — rejoiced — and knelt before him : 
And was it strange the sages bowed. 

When God's own star was beaming o'er Him, 
And angel anthems hymned aloud ? 

" To God be glory !" Spirit voices 

Attuned on high, now thrilled the earth; 

"And peace to man !" thus Heaven rejoices 
Over the Saviour's humble birth. 

Joy ! for our orb's eclipse is over ! 

Joy ! earth again breathes God's own breath ; 
With Faith around and Love above her, 

Hope to the hopeless, life to death ! 



250 



SONNETS ON THE LORD'S PRAYER. 



Pater Noster. 



Our Father ! Holiest name, first, fondest, best ! 
Sweet is the murmured music of the vow 
When young love's kiss first prints the maiden's brow 

But sweeter, to a father's yearning breast. 

His blue-eyed boy's soft prattle. This is love ! 

Pure as the streamlets that distil through mountains. 
And drop, in diamonds, in their caverned fountains ; 

Changeless, and true all earthly truth above. 

And such is Thine ! For whom ? For all — ev'n me ! 
Thou to whom all that is which sight can reach 
Is but a sand-grain on the ocean beach 

Of being ! Down, my soul : it cannot be ! 

But He hath said ! Up, soul, unto his throne ! 

Father — " Our Father" — save and bless thine own ! 



II. 

Qui es in Coelis. 



Who art in Heaven ! Thou know'st nor mete nor bound. 
Thy presence is existence. 'Neath thine eye. 



SONNETS ON THE LORD'S PRAYER. 251 

Systems spring forth, revolve, and shine — and die; 
Ev'n as to us, within their little round. 
The bright sands in the eddying hillside spring 

Sparkle and pass for ever down the stream. 

Slow-wheeling Saturn, of the misty beam, 
Circles but atoms with his mighty wing ; 
And bright-eyed Sirius, but a sentry, glows 

Upon the confines of infinity. 

Where Thou art not, ev'n Nothing cannot be ! 
Where thy smile is, is Heaven ; where not — all woes, 
Sin's chaos and its gloom. Grant Thy smile be 
•^ My light of life to guide me up to Thee ! 



III. 

Sanctificetur Nomen Tuum. 

Hallowed be Thy name ! In every clime, 
'Neath every sky ! Or in this smiling land, 
Where Vice, bold-browed, and Craft walk hand in hand. 

And varnished Seeming gives a grace to Crime ; 

Or in the howling wild, or on the plain. 

Where Pagans tremble at their rough-hewn God ; 
Wherever voice hath spoke or foot hath trod ; 

Sacred Thy name ! The skeptic wild and vain ; 

Roused from his rosy joys, the Osmanlite ; 
The laughing Ethiop, and the dusk Hindoo ; 
Thy sons of every creed, of every hue ; 

Praise thee ! Nor earth alone. Each star of night, 



252 SONNETS ON THE LORD's PRAYER. 

Join in tlie choir ! till Heaven and Earth acclaim — 
Still, and for ever, Hallowed be Thy name ! 



IV. 

Veniat Regnum Tuum. 

Thy kingdom come ! Speed, angel wings, that time ! 
Then, known no more the guile of gain, the leer 
Of lewdness, frowning power or pallid fear. 

The shriek of suffering, or the howl of crime ! 

All will be Thine — all blest ! Thy kingdom come ! 
Then in Thy arms the sinless earth will rest, 
As smiles the infant on its mother's breast. 

The dripping bayonet and the kindling drum 

Unknown — for not a foe ; the thong unknown — 
For not a slave ; the cells o'er which Despair 
Flaps his black wing and fans the sigh-swollen air, 

Deserted ! Night will pass, and hear no groan ; 

Glad Day look down, nor see nor guilt nor guile ; 

And all that Thou hast made reflect Thy smile ! 



V. 

Fiat Voluntas Tua, sicut in Coelo, ita etiam in Terra. 

Thy will be done on earth, as 'tis in Heaven ! 
That will which chords the music-moving spheres, 



SONNETS ON THE LORD'S PRAYER. 253 

With harmonies unheard by mortal ears ; 

And, losing which, our orb is jarred and riven. 

Ours a crushed harp ! Its strings by tempests shaken ; 
Swept by the hand of sin, its guilty tones 
Startle the spheres with discords and with groans ; 

By virtue, peace, hope — all but Thee — forsaken ! 

Oh be its chords restrung ! Thy will be done ! 
Mysterious law ! Our griefs approve that will : 
For as shades haunt the night, grief follows ill ; 

And bliss tends virtue, as the day the sun. 

Homage on earth, as 'tis on high, be given ; 

For when. Thy will is done, then earth is heaven ! 



VI. 

Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis liodie. 

Give us this day our daily bread ! Thou art 

Lord of the harvest. Thou hast taught the song 
Sung by the rill, the grassy vale along ; 
And 'tis Thy smile, when summer's zephyrs start. 
That makes the wavy wheat a sea of gold ! 
Give me to share Thy boon ! No miser hoard 
I crave ; no splendour ; no Apician board ; 
Freedom, and faith, and food — and all is told : 
I ask no more. But spare my brethren ! They 
Now beg, in vain, to toil ; and cannot save 
Their wan-eyed loved ones, sinking to the grave. 
Give them their daily bread ! How many pray, 

22 



264 



SONNETS ON THE LORD S PRAYER. 



Alas, in vain, for food ! Be Famine fed; 
And give us, Lord, this day, our daily bread ! 



VII. 

Et remitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos remittimus debitoribus 
nostris. 

Forgive our trespasses, as we forgive 

Those who against us trespass ! Though we take 
Life, blessings, promised heaven, from Thee, we make 

Life a long war 'gainst Him in whom we live ! 

Pure once ; now like the Cities of the Plain, 
A bitter sea of death and darkness rolls 
Its heavy waves above our buried souls. 

Yet wilt Thou raise us to the light again. 

Worms as we are, if we forgive the worm 

That grovels in our way. How light the cost. 
And yet how hard the task ! For we are lost 

In sin. Do thou my soul uphold and form ! 

Bankrupt and lost to all but hope and Thee ; 

Teach me to pardon ; and, oh pardon me ! 



VIII. 
Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. 



Lead us not in temptation ! The earth's best 
Find, but in flight, their safety ; and the wise 
Shun, with considerate steps, its basilisk eyes. 



SONNETS ON THE LORD'S PRAYER. 255 

Save us from Pleasure with the heaving breast 

And unbound zone ; from Flattery's honeyed tongue ; 

Avarice, with golden palm and icy heart ; 

Ambition's marble smile and earthy art ; 
The rosy cup where aspic death is hung ! 
Better the meal of pulse and bed of stone, 

And the calm safety of the Anchorite, 

Than aught that life can give of wild and bright. 
Be Thou my joy, my hope, my strength alone ; 
Save from the Tempter. Should he woo to ill, 
Be thou my rock, my shield, my safety still ! 



IX. 

Sed libera nos ab illo malo. 

Deliver us from evil ! Hapless race ! 

Our life a shadow, and our walk a dream ; 

Our gloom a fate, our joy a fitful gleam ; 
Where is our hope but Thee ! Oh give us grace 
To win Thy favour ! Save from loud-voiced Wrong, 

And creeping Craft. Save from the hate of foes ; 

The treachery of friends ; the many woes, 
Which to the clash of man with man belong ! 
Save those I love from want, from sickness, pain ! 

And — spared that pang of pangs — oh, let me die 

Before, for them, a tear-drop fills my eye ; 
And dying, let me hope to meet again ! 



256 SONNETS ON THE LORD'S PRAYER. 

Oh, save me from myself ! Make me and mine, 
In life and spirit, ever, only Thine ! 



X. 

Quia tuum est regnum, et potentia, et gloria in secula. Amen. 

Thine is the Kingdom, Power, and Glory ! Thine, 

A Kingdom based on past eternity, 

So vast, the pond'rous thought — could such thought be — 
Would crush the mind ! A Power that wills should shine 
A million worlds ; they shine : should die ; they die ! 

A Glory to the which the sun is dim ; 

And from whose radiance even the seraphim, 
Heaven-born, must veil the brow and shade the eye ! 
And these are Thine, for ever ! Fearful word, 

To us, the beings of a world of graves 

And minutes ! Yet Thy covenant promise saves : 
Our trust is in Thee, Father, Saviour, Lord ! 
Holy, thrice holy Thou ! For ever, then. 
Be Kingdom, Power, and Glory Thine. Amen ! 



257 



FIREMAN'S ADDRESS. 



WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR THE RELIEF 
OF DISABLED FIREMEN. 



The city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls, 
Night's dusky mantle, soft and silent, falls ; 
Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand of lead, 
And ready torpors wrap each sinking head. 
Stilled is the stir of labour and of life ; 
Hushed is the hum, and tranquillized the strife. 
Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears ; 
The young forget their sports, the old their cares ; 
The grave or careless, those who joy or weep, 
All rest contented on the arm of sleep. 

Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now, 
And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow ; 
Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide. 
Her heart's own partner wandering by her side. 
'Tis summer's eve : the soft gales scarcely rouse 
The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs ; 
And, faint and far, some minstrel's melting tone 
Breathes to her heart a music like its own. 

When hark ! Oh horror ! what a crash is there ! 
What shriek is that which fills the midnight air ? 

22* 



258 



FIREMAN S ADDRESS. 



'Tis fire ! 'tis fire ! She wakes to dream no more! 
The hot blast rushes through the blazing door ! 
The dun smoke eddies round ; and hark ! that cry ! 
"Help ! help ! Will no one aid ? I die— I die !" 
She seeks the casement : shuddering at its height, 
She turns again ; the fierce flames mock her flight ; 
Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play, 
And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey. 
" Help ! help ! Will no one come ?" She can no more, 
But, pale and breathless, sinks upon the floor. 

Will no one save thee ? Yes, there yet is one 
Remains to save, when hope itself is gone ; 
When all have fled, when all but he would fly. 
The Fireman comes, to rescue or to die ! 
He mounts the stair — it wavers 'neath his tread; 
He seeks the room — flames flashing round his head ; 
He bursts the door ; he lifts her prostrate frame, 
And turns again to brave the raging flame. 
The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath ; 
The falling timbers menace him with death ; 
The sinking floors his hurried step betray ; 
And ruin crashes round his desperate way. 
Hot smoke obscures — ten thousand cinders rise — 
Yet still he staggers forwards with his prize. 
He leaps from burning stair to stair. On ! on ! 
Courage ! One effort more, and all is won ! 
The stair is passed — the blazing hall is braved ! 
Still on ! Yet on ! Once more ! Thank Heaven, she' 
saved ! 

The hardy seaman pants the storm to brave. 
For beck'ning Fortune woos him from the wave ; 



fireman's address. 259 

The soldier battles 'neath Ms smoky shroud, 
For Glory's bow is painted on the cloud ; 
The Fireman also dares each shape of death — 
But not for fortune's gold nor glory's wreath. 
No selfish throbs within their breasts are known ; 
No hope of praise or profit cheers them on. 
They ask no meed, no fame ; and only seek 
To shield the sufi'ering and protect the weak ! 
For this the howling midnight storm they woo ; 
For this the raging flames rush fearless through ; 
Mount the frail rafter — thrid the smoky hall — 
Or toil, unshrinking, 'neath the tottering wall. 
Nobler than they who, with fraternal blood. 
Dye the dread field or tinge the shuddering flood — 
O'er their firm ranks no crimson banners wave ; 
They dare — they sufi'er — not to slay — hut save ! 
At such a sight, Hope smiles more heavenly bright ; 
Pale, pensive Pity trembles with delight ; 
And soft-eyed Mercy, stooping from above. 
Drops a bright tear — a tear of joy and love ! 

And should the Fireman, generous, true, and brave, 
Fall as he toils, the weak to shield and save ; 
Shall no kind friend, no minist'ring hand be found 
To pour the balm of comfort in his wound ? 
Or should he perish, shall his orphans say, 
" He died for them — but what for us do they ?" 
Say, is it thus we should his toils requite ? 
Forbid it, Justice, Gratitude, and Bight ! 
Forbid it, ye who dread what he endures ; 
Forbid it, ye whose slumbers he secures ; 
Forbid it, ye whose hoards he toils to save ; 
Forbid it, all, ye generous, just and brave ! 



260 



FIEBMAN S ADDRESS. 



And, above all, be you his friends, ye fair ; 
For you were ever his especial care ; 
Give to his cause your smiles, your gentle aid — 
The Fireman's wounds are healed — the orphan's tears are 
stayed ! 



261 



MEMORY. 



"Awake, arise I with grateful fervour fraught, 
Go, spring the mine of retrospective thought!" 

Rogers. 



Memory ! Her quick and kindling glance is cast 

Over the dim and silent realm of death ; 

She wakes and warms, with her ethereal breath, 
The pulseless bosom of the shrouded past ; 
She roams through childhood's far and fairy clime, 

Its withered buds reviving 'neath her tread ; 

She ranges, with light bark and sail aspread. 
The tideless ocean of departed Time. 
She guards the grave of joys which smile no more, 

Moistening the flowers which droop regretful there ; 

She strikes the lyre o'er friendships fleet as fair, 
And watches, weeping. Love's heart-hoarded store. 
All that earth has or hopes lives but for thee : 
This heart, then. Memory, shall thine altar be ! 



262 



SIN NO MORE. 



" Sin no more, lest a worse thing come upon thee." 

Art thou young, yet hast not given 
Dewy bud and bloom to Heaven ? 

Tarryest till life's morn be o'er ? 
Pause, or ere the bolt be driven ! 
Sin no more ! 

Art thou aged ? Seek'st thou power ? 
Rank or gold — of dust the dower ? 

Fame to wreathe thy wrinkles hoar ? 
Dotard ! death hangs o'er thy hour ! 
Sin no more ! 

Art thou blest ? False joys caress thee ; 
And the world's embraces press thee 

To its hot heart's cankered core : 
Waken ! Heaven alone can bless thee. 
Sin no more ! 

Art thou wretched ? Hath each morrow 
Sown its sin to reap its sorrow ? 



SIN NO MORE. 263 

Turn to Heaven — repent — adore : 
Hope new light from Faith can borrow ; 
Sin no more ! 

May a meek and rapt devotion 
Fill thy heart, as waves the ocean, 

Glassing Heaven from shore to shore ! 
Then wilt thou — calmed each emotion — 
Sin no more. 



264 



NAPOLEON'S DEATH. 



" The fifth of May came amid wind and rain, Napoleon's spirit was engaged in a strife 
more terrible than that of the elements around. The words "Tete d'arm6e" were the 
last which escaped his lips." — Scott's Life. 

Wide war the waves against Helena's rock, 

Till mountain and valley reverb with the shock ; 

The earth trembles deep to her innermost cave, 

As the crash of the cloud thunders fierce o'er the wave ; 

For dread is the conflict which elements wage. 

Opponent omnipotents wrestling in rage ! 

But well now may earth to the elements bow, 

For him who has conquered it death conquers now ! 

The mighty, who made death his vassal, his slave, 

Who catered for carnage, who glutted the grave ; 

Whose will was a nature, whose anger was doom, 

Now battles with fate o'er the brink of the tomb. 

On his rock in the ocean — dragged thither to die, 

By the coward dishonour that shrank from his eye — 

He sleeps : and the pale, faithful few hold their breath ; 

O'er his orb-like brow gathers the chill dew of death ; 

And those pulses whose throbbings shook Europe's broad 

breast. 
Now sink, with a last, feeble flutter, to rest ! 



napoleon's death. 266 

But where is his spirit ? At home, in the war ! 

It is floating in glory and conquering afar : 

It marshals his warriors, it soars o'er the fray, 

And his foes, like the fears of a dream, melt away. 

It throws over nations the hue of his mind ; 

It widens — it widens — it dyes all mankind : 

His baffled compeers into darkness are hurled — 

Napoleon was born to be lord of the world ! 

Like the current of noble Niagara's wave. 

More strong grew the tide of his mind near the grave ; 

Still borne on the blast of some fancied affray, 

" Tete d'armeeV he cried, and his soul sprung away ! 



23 



266 



LINES FOR MUSIC. 



Oft have I listened to that strain, 

In hushed and holy joy ; 
Till bliss dilated into pain, 

And rapture heaved a sigh. 
And oft, when her I gazed upon, 

I checked the breath I drew, 
And thrilled to think me blessed in one 

So tender and so true. 

But where is now that melting voice. 

That face so fondly fair ? 
Mid leafless hopes and lifeless joys, 

My sad heart echoes — where ! 
For others now she breathes that song. 

Those beauties lights with smiles ; 
And I may mourn, in ruth and wrong, 

Her weakness or her wiles. 



267 



THE RIGHT. 



The Right, God-girdled, star-gemmed, is tlie Right, 
Ever and allwhere. When it lifts its eye. 
Tearful and fearful, to the pitying sky, 

All heaven and earth its champion and its might ! 

Man was not born to be the lord of man. 
Nor man to be his slave. It cannot be 
But that each freeman worthy to be free. 

Will own this truth — a truth since time began. 

For the down-stricken weep ! For in your tear 
There is no treason. Codes may stay the arm : 
So be it ! Hearts are chainless : quick and warm, 

They curse the fetter and they laugh at fear. 

Earth is the home of grief and of the grave : 

Enough of woe ! Why should it know a slave ? 



268 



ALONE. 



To our oivn star, I cast my aching eye, 

Muse o'er the happy past, and musing sigh. 

How oft beneath that orb, whose pensive ray 

Now lights my sad and solitary way. 

Have we — while heart met heart, eye answered eye, 

And love denied all language save a sigh, — 

Far-off, alone, (for what to thee and me. 

Was all the heartless world, its guile and glee ?) 

Together strayed, and, 'neath that planet, wove 

The pure, bright, blissful spirit-spell of love ! 

Now, mid a sleeping world, I lonely stray, 

My eyes bent pensive on that placid ray ; 

And sigh — while echo mocks my saddened tone — 

'Tis fled — alas, I am alone, alone ! 

And yet as calm, as lovely in its light. 

That star still glitters from the brow of night, 

As when — ah, quickly sped that time ! — it shone 

Upon a heaven more happy than its own ! 

Where, now, art thou ? Down where the light winds 
urge,— 
As cares still vex the soul, — the ceaseless surge ? 
Does Memory also lift thy tearful eye. 
To where our Hesper trembles in yon sky ? 



ALONE. 269 

Yes, — while the star-lit waters murmur near, 
And the far festal steals upon thine ear, 
Thou lingerest fondly by the lonely sea, 
To drop one unseen tear, and think of me. 
Alas, that love so fond and faith so true, 
A nature purer than the dawn-lit dew, 
A spirit gentler than the ^olian tone. 
Should weep for woes — not other than her own ! 
For me, no change, no cheer can soothe to rest 
The wild impatient pangs that rend my breast. 
I mingle with the world ; its empty noise. 
Its lingering miseries and its light-winged joys ; — 
In vain ! The folly-freighted stream rolls by. 
Without a charm to catch my careless eye. 
Stupid and lost, amid the maze I tread. 
To hope indifferent, and to pleasure dead. 
I only know that thou, my love, art gone ; 
I only feel I am alone, alone ! 



23* 



270 



THE REVILER REBUKED. 



England ! the proud and bright, the sea-girt Rome ; 

Of every virtue, every vice the home ; 

Fierce and insatiate as her subject sea ; 

The mocked world's foe ; and yet great, brave, and free ! 

As drum to drum, o'er lorded earth and sea, 

Sends round the girdled world her reveille, 

So shriek to answering shriek still dogs its way, 

Proclaiming England's crimes with England's sway. 

Thou busiest merchant in the inhuman trade, 

Who coined up blood, and gold from crushed hearts made ; 

Whose motto, "Freedom and the Trade in slaves !" 

Rang through thy streets and echoed o'er thy waves ; 

Who, in dark treaties, still secured the right 

Which o'er the western world has cast a blight ; 

And brought your freights of flesh, 'neath whip and chain, 

To mark our young brow with the curse of Cain ! 

Thou canst reproach us — thou ! with pious tone. 

Canst taunt us with the wrongs which thou hast done — 

Hast done, and would do, though thy victims' cry 

Should rouse the bolts that slumber in the sky ! 

No conscious pang the wrong thy bosom lent 

Till the trade ceased to yield thee cent, per cent. ; 

Nor ceased thy bonds to press the faint slave's veins. 

Until his freedom added to thy gains. 



THE REVILER REBUKED. 271 

Thou darest revile us ! who, where India's sun 

Shines — but not smiles — above a realm undone, 

Hast, wolf-like, lapped up blood ; hast mocked at trust ; 

And built an empire on an empire's dust ! 

Go ! look through history's crimes, and thou wilt see, 

That Rome, the Robber-den, was meek to thee. 

Millions untold have fed thy lust and wrath, 

And their wan shades now shriek along thy path. 

And thou revilest us ! — Hark ! another shriek 

Rings o'er the earth and pales creation's cheek. 

'Tis China ! Calmest, meekest child of Time ; 

An hundred centuries have watched her prime. 

And, wondering, owned that earth at least could boast 

One spot where lust of rule its power had lost. 

Strong, yet unthreatening ; strange to wrong or fear ; 

A land that never cost the world a tear ! 

She has harmed none : and where's the ruthless band 

Would carry war and woe to such a land ? 

Where, but beneath the red cross that has waved 

Its crimson folds o'er isles and realms enslaved ? 

Where but with those, who prate of mercy — still 

Even while they prate, in cold blood chain and kill ? 

The paltry pretext ? China dared deny 

The right to poison — would not eat and die. 

Woe, then, to China ! Let the red cross wave 

Above the realm, a desert and a grave ! 

Let war and famine spread their baleful night ; 

And England, o'er the ruins, preach of right ! 

Thou whited wall ! Thou gory robber ! Thou 

Of mercy talkest, with murder on thy brow ; 

And utterest words of peace (thou pure and good !) 

While thy lips bubble with thy brother's blood ! 



272 



THE WIFE OF THE INEBRIATE. 



A LOVELY thing is the light that joy 

O'er the young and gentle throws, 
When the budding heart love fluttereth, 

As the humming-bird shakes the rose : 
But the grace of grief, o'er beauty thrown, 

Is a lovelier thing, I ween ; 
It is the pale moon's holy light. 

When it silvereth a summery scene. 

I am thinking of her I saw last night. 

Of her dark and pensive eye. 
Which melted into angel thoughts, 

And shone like a star-lit sky ; 
Her voice — 'twas the voice that we hear in dreams, 

Or the rivulet tones of May : — 
Eye, voice, and all are with me now, 

And never can pass away ! 

He — once her young heart's joy — drew near, 

And he sat him by her side : 
What was it wrung her gentle brow ? 

What flushed her timid pride ? 



THE WIFE OF THE INEBRIATE. 273 

His soul is sealed to the poison-fiend ; 

His breath is a breath of flame ; 
And gibbering heavily there he sat 

And rocked in his idiot shame. 

And this, all this, where the world looked on, 

Amid a stranger throng ! 
I felt it would be a joy to die 

For that gentle being's wrong ! 
With her quivering lip and her swimming eye, 

And her mute and crushed despair, 
She looked as grief in heaven would look. 

If grief e'er entered there. 

How beautiful, thus sorrow-crowned. 

That faultless face and form ! 
As fair, as pale as the sun-lit cloud 

When tortured by the storm. 
Earth, sky, and sea are beautiful, 

But earth, nor sky, nor sea, 
Hath aught so sadly, sweetly bright. 

Deserted one ! as thee ! 

And thou, the lost ! who hast thrown away 

A gem earth could not buy — 
Proud joys are thine — and cheaply bought ! 

But go ! drink deep, and die ! 
Ay, churl, to thy dizzy revel go, 

And raise the bacchant roar ; 
Drink, drink and die, that thy loathly form 

May blot God's earth no more ! 



274 THE WIFE OF THE INEBRIATE. 

Woman ! what gloom on thy sinless path 

Man's selfish vices fling ! 
His ever the maniac joys of guilt ; 

But thine, alas, the sting ! 
How many a gentle heart thus crushed ; 

How many a form laid low ! 
0, the seraphs pause in their hymns of bliss, 

To weep o'er woman's woe ! 



276 



POLAND. 



I SAW her — her hand on her sword, 

And Hope kindled wild in her eye, 
As she vowed, by her wrongs, by the faith she adored, 
No longer to bow to the Muscovite lord. 

But spurn her oppressors, or die ! 

Time passed : I beheld her again ; 

Where now was the glory of yore ? 
She had fought — she had conquered, but conquered in 

vain ; 
For foes came in nations — like waves of the main — 

And Poland was Poland no more ! 

She fell — but on Liberty's grave ! 

She died — as she swore she would die ; 
She sank, as beseemeth the free and the brave, 
Where the mad cannons roar and the bright banners wave, 

And the war-cry rings cheerly and high. 

Now weep for the brave and the fair ! 
Oppression's again on its throne ; 
And the silence and peace which it promised are there — 
The silence of death and the peace of despair : 
They have conquered her ashes alone ! 



276 



THE SENSUALIST'S WARNING. 



He roamed by the hillside, he strayed o'er the lea ; 
And he thought of his sins, for a losel was he ; 
He roamed by the hillside, he strayed o'er the lea, 
And he met by the streamlet a bonnye ladye. 

Her lip it was laughing, her eye it was light. 
And her rose-circled forehead was comelie and bright : 
And, " Come thou with me !" sang the light, lilting maid — 
"The wine-cup it glistens, the banquet is laid." 

" come thou with me, love, and share in my glee ; 
To my fairy-spread bower bed, come thou with me!" 
And she smiled on him gaily, and quickly quoth he — 
" The foul fiend is in't, an' I go not with thee." 

And he stood in her bower ; how wild rang the grove 
With dancing and melody, laughter and love ! 
And he joyed with the joyous, and laughed with the light, 
And danced with that ladye the merry long night. 

Then his light o' love, filling a gay goblet up, 

Bade him pledge her to love in the red mantling cup ; 



/ 



THE sensualist's WARNING. 277 

The bowl's at his lip now, and now on the ground ; 
And now in his frenzied embrace she is bound ! 

'Tis over — 'tis over ! Ah, hark to that sound 
As if Heaven's vast concave had fallen around ! 
He starts — 'tis in vain, for the spirit spell bound him, 
And the arms of that falsa one are still writhed around 
him ! 

He gazed on her — Heavens ! how cold was that form ! 
And the face — 'twas alive with the ghastly grave-worm ! 
Her eyes they were lustreless ; still w^as the breath : — 
He laid on the reptile-ploughed bosom of death ! 

He shrieked and he struggled, but struggled in vain ; 
And his shrieks, by strange voices, were echoed again : 
For demons danced round him, and dead men a crowd, 
And mocked him with laughter all fiend-like and loud. 

" God of Heaven, assoil me !" in terror he said, — 
It vanished ! — and all was as still as the dead. 
He raised him all faint from the dew-dampened ground : 
The pure stars hung o'er him, and silence around. 



24 



278 



THE BEAM ON THE WATERS. 



It was eve, and lier planet shone down in the dell, 
As I stood by the rock where the mountain stream fell, 
And watched the pale beam on the wave where it smiled, 
So tremblingly true and so meltingly mild : 
And I said, like that billow, thus bright from above. 
Is the heart that is lighted by woman's true love ; 
Though rocks and though ruin his pathway may fill. 
She shares in his sorrows and smiles on him still ! 

But a wave, 'mid the rocks, in the rage of the stream. 

From its turbulent breast spurned the tremulous beam ; 

Yet when the spent billow sank sobbing to rest. 

That fond beam returned to its still heaving breast. 

When terrors assail us, or wild passions move, 

thus, ever thus, 'tis with woman's true love ; 

She is wronged — she is spurned — yet she loves not the 

less, 
But weeps while she watches to brighten and bless ! 



279 



A SKETCH. 



She knelt by lier lover's gory bed, 

For bis life was fast receding ; 
On ber panting breast sbe pillowed his head, 

And essayed to staunch its bleeding. 

" Oh, look on me, love 1" But he heeded not ; 

" Oh, tell me thou art not dying !" 
He heard but the far-off battle shot — 

He saw but the foeman flying. 

« Rise— fly with me, Albert !" But vainly she wept, 
And twined her white arms around him ; 

For far on the war-blast his fierce spirit swept, 
And the battle spell still bound him. 

He raised from her breast — " On, comrades, on!" 

The hot blood gushed as he started : 
" Oh, calm thee, my Albert, the battle is done !" 

"On ! on !" — and his spirit departed. 

One wild look of terror the maiden cast 
On the form of her lifeless lover, 



280 A SKETCH. 

One look — 'twas the saddest, the loveliest, last ! 
One throb — and the struggle was over ! 

Her head on the breast of her hero sank low ; 
No sobs her suffering betoken ; 

And the dew gathered thick on her pale, cold brow- 
Cold — cold — for her heart was broken ! 



281 



THE INCONSTANT'S TRIUMPH. 



A BLOW — a death ! And there his victim — there 
The stony eye glared up on his despair. 
They were alone ? No ; One looked on the strife, 
That One, whose voice hath spoken, "Life for life !" 
Both lost ! A short month fled, the stripling took 
From his pure home, the last kiss, the last look ; 
And bade his mother, in his young love's pride. 
Prepare, with equal love, to greet his bride : 
Then turned again — his glad heart gushing o'er — 
For one last kiss, and one last blessing more. 
Weeks fly : why come not Milton and his bride ? 
The sire essays his swelling fears to hide ; 
The mother looks forth from her greenwood home : 
" Why comes not Milton ? When will Milton come?' 
Yet her fond heart dares not confess its fear. 
And quick she turns to wipe the trembling tear ; 
Then kneels and prays, as only mothers pray, 
For her heart's darling won from her away. 
Why comes he not ? Ask not, pale mother ! He 
Is lost to love, to hope, and even to thee ! 
His worshipped one, whom 'twas a joy to give 
Each hope, each heart-throb he could feel and live, 

24* 



282 THE INCONSTANT'S TRIUMPH. 

Is false ! The fate fell on him, as the flash 

That scathes and bares the branchy mountain ash. 

A desolation now ; — a young leaf cast — 

Torn from life's tree — upon the eddying blast ! 

AVhat to his brain — how dizzy now and dim ! 

Or to his ashy heart, was home to him ? 

Away — away ! Lashed onward by despair, 

Whither he knew not, whither did not care : 

One hour, borne madly on the tempest's swell ; 

The next, a murderer in a dungeon cell ! 

Vainly, when zephyrs stir the rustling bough, 

His gray-haired sire will pause — " He cometh now !" 

Vainly his mother, in her anguish, cry, 

"Restore my son, oh God, and let me die !" 

In all his beauty, gentleness, and joy. 

Thus sinks, in crime and shame, their cherished boy. 

Pity not him, nor them ! but her whose smile. 

Armed by each cheating charm and winning wile, 

First fired his heart and fixed a madness there ; 

Then laughed — and left it to its own despair ! 

Oh, if in heaven some special bolt there be, 

It is, it must be, for a wretch like thee. 

That melting voice shall mock the mandrake's groan ; 

Those tears shall freeze, like drops in caves, to stone ; 

Those smiles afi'right, like gloamings o'er a grave ; 

And, in thy misery, who shall soothe or save ? 

Hating and hated, thou shalt live, and lone; 

And all men freelier breathe when thou art gone ! 



283 



SONG. 



The night-breeze sways softly my dew-matted hair, 

And the stars with the bright billows lazily play ; 
No sound, save the streamlet, vibrates in the air, 

Yet vainly my lone couch would woo me away. 
That couch now is sad ; slumber courts it in vain ; 

Too wild is this leal bosom's love-lighted strife ; 
And memory still waters, with tear-drops, its chain, 

And asks for the smile and the kiss of my wife. 

My first and my only love, years have flown by, 

Long years of a passion how blissful, how blest ! 
Yet love beams as fond, as at first, from my sky, 

To swell, sway, and brighten, the tides of my breast. 
Though hope may desert me, and youth may grow gray, 

And time steal away all that now lightens life, 
No fate can impair, and no age can decay 

The joys of the smile and the kiss of my wife. 



284 



THE RECONCILIATION. 



Nay, love, let me soothe these emotions to rest; 

Woe worth this bright tear in your eye ! 
May this kiss quell the terrors that throb in your breast, 

And quiet that tremulous sigh. 

You know that I love you. Glad years have gone by 
Since I first sealed that love on your brow ; 

Yet believe me, my mourner, and quiet that sigh, 
I love you more fervently now. 

What though I be wayward and wilful at times ? 

You know that the warmest of skies, 
That fondly bends over the loveliest climes. 

Is the wildest when tempests will rise. 

I am true to you ever. My feelings still flow 

Like a full river's waves to the sea ; 
Though the rude wind may ruffle its surface, below 

Its tides set for ever to thee. 

You smile ; and love's stars beam again from our sky, 

The gloom of a moment to light : 
Yet but for that sorrow, unknown were this joy ; 

As those stars were unseen, but for night. 



285 



THE WAITING WIFE. 



Dost linger jet ? My aching eye 

Rests vainly on thy darkened way ; 
The stars are gathering in the sky : 
How canst thou stay ! 

The bat is fluttering by my head ; 

The chill dew beads my aching brow ; 
And all is lone, and dim, and dread : 
0, where art thou ? 

Haste to thy home ! A half-formed fear 

Whispers of ill ; but thou wilt come ! 
Joy is not joy, and thou not here : 
0, haste thee home ! 

Come love ! I've spread thy plain repast ; 

Thy ready chair I've fondly set ; 
But thou — though twilight fadeth fast — 
Art absent yet. 

Joy ! through the shade, his form I see 

Glide from the thicket. No — 'tis gone 
Be hushed my heart ! It is not he. 
Still, still alone ! 



J8G 



SONNET TO DR. E. B. G. 



The tottering year hatli fall'n — thus falls the tower 
Upon the toys and tombs it covered : So 
Falls not a rock-based friendship ! Now the glow 

Of a new year flashes its orient shower 

Along the vista, with Hope's flowers bestrewn ; 

The shrewish months will wither them : But ne'er ^ 
Make the bright evergreen of friendship sere — 

Time, nature, destiny, are friendship's own ! 

The manly sympathy, lit up by worth. 
Gives forth not Etna's glare to flash afar 
And die ; its radiance is the Northern Star — 

The same for ever, and o'er all the earth. 

Such friendship words no praise, and twines no wreath ; 

But lives with life, and dies not e'en with death. 



NOTES. 



NOTE TO AYLMERE. 

Mr. Malone has satisfactorily demonstrated that the caricature of the 
leader in the English insurrection of 1450, introduced in Shakspeare's 
second part of Henry VI., was borrowed from an old play, which, 
but for his touch of fire, would long since have sunk into oblivion. But 
it is the attribute of transcendent genius to impart immortality even to 
the grossest absurdity ; and the idea of Jack Cade is now associated, in 
the popular mind, with all that is vulgar, brutal and barbarous. So 
general, indeed, is this impression, that the attempt, even in fiction, to 
render such a character an object of interest, is regarded as a poetical 
license so presumptuous as to demand apology. The author does not 
regret a necessity that enables him to correct an historical wrong, 
which, originating in the subserviency of contemporaneous chroniclers, 
has, either from a culpable carelessness, or from a characteristic dis- 
position to derogate from every popular movement for the assertion of 
the equal rights of man, been repeated and sanctioned by more modern 
historians. 

The insurrection of 1881, the first general rising of the English com- 
mons, seems to date the dawn of popular liberty in that country. The 
period was pregnant with important revolutions. ''The internal or 
constitutional history of the European nations," says Mackintosh, 
" threatened, in almost every continental country, the fatal establish- 
ment of absolute monarchy. . . . Parliaments and diets, states-general 
and cortes, were gradually disappearing from view, or reduced from 
august assemblies to insignificant formalities ; and Europe seemed on 
the eve of exhibiting to the disgusted eye nothing but the dead uni- 
formity of imbecile despotism, dissolute courts, and cruelly oppressed 
nations." Yet, even under these adverse auspices, the mind of man 



288 



NOTES. 



was winning momentous triumphs ; and popular power was silently 
extended with popular knowledge. The discovery of the mariner's 
compass led the way to new worlds, and imparted energy and activity 
to intellect and enterprise ; and the invention of the art of printing 
opened the cloistered knowledge of the age to the masses. Chaucer 
had already lashed, with the scourge of satire, the abuses of the Church ; 
and under the bold attacks of Wickliife, errors, long tolerated without 
question, became the subject of doubt and discussion. The revolt of 
the serfs, La Jacquerie, in France, the triumph of the burghers in the 
Netherlands, find the freedom of the peasants of the Alps, indicated 
that the popular mind was awakening from its long torpor ; and that 
the movement had been commenced, which, after various delays, resulted 
in the abolition of villenage throughout the larger part of Europe. 
Nowhere was the manifestation of this spirit more remarkable for the 
wrongs which aroused, and the moderation which restrained it, than 
in England. It is an error to trace to the charters which the barons 
extorted from their monarchs, the liberties of England : the triumphs of 
the nobles were theirs alone, and enured almost exclusively to their 
own advantage. The mass of the people were villeins or serfs, and they 
were left, by those boasted charters, in their chains. The condition of 
the bondmen differed in degrees of degradation and cruelty (for the 
mere slaves — servi — were known by the names of theoiv, esne, and thrall, 
and distinguished from the villeins), but, even where most favourable, 
it was a dark and inhuman oppression. The villeins were incapable of 
property, destitute of legal redress, and bound to services ignoble in 
their nature and indeterminate in their degree ; they were sold sepa- 
rately from the land, could not marry without consent, and were, in 
nowise, elevated above the beasts of burthen with which they drudged 
in their unrequited and hopeless labour. At length, their sufferings 
drove them into resistance ; and that resistance, provoked and sancti- 
fied by unmeasured wrongs, has been, by almost every successive 
historian, made the subject of misrepresentation and obloquy. The 
old chroniclers, without exception, vie with each other in their zeal 
to blacken the champions of the people; and, as those patriots fell, 
without an arm to shield or a voice to vindicate them, their calumnia- 
tors have hitherto triumphed. Yet, from materials thus corrupt and 
malignant, will we undertake to glean evidence, accidentally or una- 
voidably admitted, sufficient to justify their cause and vindicate their 
memory. 

The insurrection generally known as Wat Tyler's, is ascribed by 



NOTES. 289 

Hollinslied to " the lewd demenor of some vndiscreete officers." The 
following extract from that author -will afford an insight not only into 
the causes of the rebellion, but the spirit of hatred and detraction with 
which it is recorded, <'The commons of the realme sore repining, not 
onely for the pole grotes that were demanded of them, by reason of the 
grant made in parlement (as yee have heard) but also (as some write) 
for that they were sore oppressed (as they tooke the matter) by their 
land lords, that demanded of them their ancient customes and ser- 
vices, set on by some diuelish instinct and persuasion of their owne 
beastlie intentions, as men not content with the state wherevnto they 
were called, rose in diuerse parts of this realme, and assembled togither 
in companies, purposing to inforce the prince to make them free and 
to release them of all seruitude, whereby they stood as bondmen to 
their lords and superiours." 

Among the first and most fearless of the advocates of the abolition of 
villenage, was a mendicant friar, whose name is given as John Ball. The 
inferior clergy promoted manumission ; but the commons were opposed 
to the more elevated dignitaries of the church, except, as was stated by 
one of their leaders, " onelie friars mendicants that might suffice for 
the ministration of the sacraments." How far the clergy of the court 
deserved this condemnation may be judged by the following description 
of them from Kollinshed. " Moreover such were preferred to bishop- 
rikes, and other ecclesiasticall linings, as neither could teach nor 
preach, nor knew anything of the scripture of God, but onelie to call 
for their tithes and duties : so that they were most unworthy the name 
of bishops, being lewd and most vaine persons disguised in bishops 
apparell. Furthermore, there reigned abundantlie the filthie sinne of 
leacherie and fornication, with abhominable ad,ulterie, specialle in the 
king, but most cheeflie in the prelacie, whereby the whole realme by 
such their euill example, was so infected that the wrath of God was 
dailie provoked to vengeance for the sins of the prince and his people." 
John Ball presents, in strong contrast to this revolting picture, a cha- 
racter of singular simplicity, purity and devotedness. He is called by 
Froissart, " a foolish priest of Kent," and the doctrines he so boldly and 
perseveringly taught, and sealed at last with his blood, were then con- 
sidered as iniquitous, as they were novel and startling. The most 
satisfactory account of him and of his dangerous mission is found in 
Hollinshed. "This man had been a preacher the space of twentie 
years, and bicause his doctrine was not according to the religion then 
by the bishops mainteined, he was first prohibited to preach in anie 

25 



290 NOTES. 

church or chappell ; and "vvlien he ceased not for all that, but set foorth 
his doctrine in the streets and fields where he might haue an audience, 
at length he was committed to prison, out of which he prophecied he 
should be deliuered with the force of twentie thousand men, and even 
so it came to passe in time of the rebellion of the commons. When all 
the prisons were broken vp, and the prisoners set at libertie, he being 
therefore so deliuered, followed them, and at Blackheath when the great- 
est multitude was got togither (as some write) he made a sermon, taking 
this saieng or common prouerbe for his theame, whereupon to intreat : 

' When Adam delued and Eve span; 
Who was then a gentleman?' 

and so continuing his sermon, went about to proue by the words of that 
prouerbe, that from the beginning, all men by nature were created 
alike, and that bondage or seruitude came in by iniust oppression of 
naughtie men. For if God would have had anie bondmen from the 
beginning, he would haue appointed who should be bond and who free. 
And therefore he exhorted them to consider, that now the time was 
come appointed to them by God, in which they might (if they would) 
cast off the yoke of bondage and recouer libertie. He counselled them 
therefore to remember themselues, and to take good hearts unto them, 
&c., &c. Manie other things are reported by writers of this John Ball, 
as the letter, which vnder a kinde of darke riddle he wrote to the cap- 
taine of the Essex rebels, the copie whereof was found in one of their 
pursses that was executed at London. 

*' The tenour of the said seditious preests letter. 

" lohn Scheepe S. Marie, preest of York and now of Colchester, 
greeteth well lohn Nameless, and lohn the Miller, and lohn Carter, 
and biddeth them that they beware of guile in Bourrough and stand 
togither in God's name, and biddeth Piers ploughman go to his worke, 
and chastise well Hob the robber, and lohn Trewman and all his fel- 
lows, and no mo. lohn the Miller Y ground small, small, small, the 
King's Sonne of heaven shall paie for all. Be ware or ye be wo, know 
your friend from your foe, haue enough and sale ho, and doo well and 
better, flee sin and seeke peace, and hold you therein, and so biddeth 
lohn Trewman and all his fellowes." 

The doctrines of John Ball, urged with the enthusiasm of conscious 
right, and enforced by the sanction of religion, could not fail, in com- 



NOTES. 



291 



bination with the cruelty of the barons, the exactions of the court, 
the reckless depravity of the nobility, and the misery and degradation 
of the people, to excite deep and dangerous discontents. The over- 
charged feelings of the people were at length, by an outrage calculated 
in the highest degree to excite the passions of the multitude, let loose, 
and swept the land like a torrent. One of the insolent and rapacious 
oflficers for the collection of an oppressive poll-tax entered, during the 
absence of its proprietor, the cottage of a tiler — a man who seems to 
have been worthily esteemed by the populace. This tax was leviable 
upon females only when over fifteen years of age ; and the licentious 
ofl&cer, alleging that the beautiful daughter of the tiler was beyond 
that age, "therewith," (we quote again from Hollinshed,) "began 
to misuse the maid, and search further than honestie would have per- 
mitted. The mother straightAvaie made an outcrie, so that hir husband 
being in the towne at worke, and hearing of this adoo at his house, 
came running home with his lathing staffe in his hand, and began to 
question with the officer, asking him who made him so bold to'keepe 
such a rule in his house : the officer being somewhat presumptuous, 
and high-minded, would forthwith have flowne upon the Tiler : but the 
Tiler, avoiding the officer's blow, raught him such a rap on the pate, 
that his braines flue out, and so presentlie he died. Great noise rose 
about this matter in the streets, and the poor folks being glad, everie 
man arraied himself to support John Tiler, and thus the commons drew 
togither and went to Maidestone, and from thence to Blackheath, where 
their numbers so increased, that they were reckoned to be thirtie thou- 
sand. And the said John Tiler tooke vpon him to be their cheefe cap- 
taine, naming himself Jack Straw," &c. 

It would be difficult to imagine holier motives to justify resistance to 
oppression than those unwittingly and unwillingly disclosed by the 
chroniclers, who represent the commons as the guiltiest malefactors. 
Their wrongs and sujfferings were as dark and deadly as any which ever 
crushed a people. They had no hope of redress from courts or codes ; 
their only reliance was in their own union and hardihood ; and the in- 
vocation to resistance proclaimed in the outrage upon the helplessness 
of the tiler's daughter, w.as as sacred and moving as that by which 
Brutus or Virginius aroused Rome. Nor does the purity and elevation 
of the cause suflFer reproach from the conduct of its champions. Wat 
Tyler soon found himself at the head of one hundred thousand men, 
"the villeins and poor men" of Kent, Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex, Sussex, 
and other eastern counties. Illiterate, unused to freedom, infuriated 



£>dA NOTES. 

by "wrongs and desperate from misery, it might be supposed tJhat so 
vast and disorganized a multitude would have rushed into boundless 
excesses. So far from it, it seems that, from the first, they not only 
disclaimed treasonable designs, but administered to all an oath that 
"they should be faithful to King Richard and the commons." They 
soon obtained possession of London, and the Chancellor and the Primate 
suflFered the death they merited, " as evil counsellors of the crown and 
cruel oppressors of the people." The approbation and confidence of 
the citizens afford evidence that neither their designs nor conduct in- 
spired mistrust. The Mayor durst not, says Hollinshed, shut the 
gates against them, "for fear of the commons of the citie, who seemed 
to favour the cause of the rebels so apparentlie, that they threatened 
to kill the Lord Maior, and all other that would take vpon them to 
shut the gates against the commons. The Londoners liked better of 
the commons for that they protested that the cause of their assembling 
togither, was not but to seeke out the traitors of the realm, and when 
they had found them forth, and punished them according to what they 
had deserved, they ment to be quiet. And to give more credit to their 
saiengs, they suffered none of their corapanie to rob or spoile, but 
caused them to paie for that they tooke." That a certain amount of 
disorder and riot attended the presence of such a multitude cannot be 
doubted, and it could not have been otherwise. We learn that they 
destroyed the Savoy, the palace of the obnoxious Duke of Lancaster ; 
and the angry chronicler informs us that "the shamefull spoile which 
they made was wonderful, and yet the zeal of iustice, truth, and upright 
dealing which they would seeme to shew was as nice and strange on 
the other part in such kind of misgouerned people. One of them hauing 
thrust a faire silver piece into his bosome, meaning to conueie it awaie, 
was espied of his fellowes, who tooke him, and cast both him and the 
piece into the fire ; saieng they might not suffer anie such thing, sith 
they professed themselves to be zealous of truth and iustice, and not 
thieves and robbers." 

The conduct of this vast multitude, provoked by a thousand wrongs, 
and with the power to secure an ample vengeance, and glut to the 
uttermost their rapacity on the spoil of their unsparing oppressors, 
presents a singular contrast with the dishonourable perfidy and san- 
guinary cruelty exhibited by their lords. Mackintosh, the only his- 
torian who does them even stinted justice, says : " At this moment of 
victory, the demands of the serfs were moderate, and, except in one 
instance, just. They required the abolition of bondage, the liberty of 



NOTES. 293 

buying and selling in fairs and markets, a general pardon, and the 
reduction of the rent of land to an equal rate. The last of these con- 
ditions was indeed unjust and absurd ; but the first of them, though 
incapable of being carried into immediate execution without probably- 
producing much misery to themselves, was yet of such indisputable 
justice on general grounds, as to make it most excusable in the sufferers 
to accept nothing less from their oppressors." But this usually accu- 
rate historian fails to inform us that the court, after a mature conside- 
ration of the demands of the commons, regularly and formally conceded 
all that was required. Doubts being entertained, as the result proved 
not without reason, of the sincerity of the king and court, charters 
were demanded and granted, securing the abolition of bondage, the 
redress of grievances, and a full pardon to all engaged in the insurrec- 
tion. The annals of royalty, clouded as they are with every crime of 
which human nature is capable, present few instances of such deliberate 
and atrocious perfidy, of craft so cowardly and base, consummated by 
cruelty so guilty and unsparing. The following is a copy of the charter 
literally transcribed fi'om Plollinshed, who informs us that : " the like 
there was granted to them of other countries, as well as these of Hert- 
fordshire in y® same forme, the names of the counties being changed." 

The forme of the king's Charter of Manumission. 

RiciiARDUs Dei gratia rex Anglic & Francise & dominus Hibernise : 
omnibus balliuis & fidelibus suis, ad quos proesentes litters peruene- 
rint, salutem. Sciatis quod de gratia nostra speciali manumisimus 
vniuersos ligeos & singulos subditos nostros et alios comitatus Hert- 
fordire, & ipsos & eorum quemlibet ab omni bondagio exuimus, & 
quietos facimus per prsesentes, ac etiam perdonamus eisdem ligeis ac 
subditis nostris omnimodas felonias, proditiones, transgressiones, & 
extortiones, per ipsos vel aliquem eorum qualitercunque factas siue 
perpetratas, ac etiam vtlagariam & vtlagarias si qua vel quce in ipsos, 
vel aliquem ipsorum fuerit vel fuerint hijs occasionibus promulgata vel 
promulgatse, & summam pacem nostram eis & eorum cuilibet inde con- 
cedimus. In cuius rei testimonium, has litteras nostras fieri fecimus 
paten tes. Teste meipso apud London 15 die Junij. Anno regni nostri 
quarto. 

" The commons having received this charter departed home." The 
Essex men first left London, and those from other counties shortly fol- 
lowed. The leader of the Kentishmen, the unfortunate Wat Tyler, 

25- 



294 



NOTES. 



distrusted the fair dealing of the court, and in an interview with the 
king at Smithfield, met a melancholy realization of his fears. Mackin- 
tosh, in relating the facts, remarks: "it must not be forgotten that 
the partizans of Tyler had no historians." But a careful review of the 
servile chroniclers of the court will satisfy the reader that Tyler was, 
in the presence of the king, and under his guaranty of safety, basely 
and without adequate, if any, provocation, assassinated. 

This murder was but the first of thousands. The finale may be 
readily imagined. The solemn and sacred pardon of the king was dis- 
regarded ; the charter, with its sanction of covenants and oaths, was 
revoked. After the dispersion of the commons, the men of Essex, says 
Hollinshed, "sent to the king to know of him if his pleasure was, that 
they should inioy their promised liberties." The king, "in a great 
chafe," answered that "bondmen they were and bondmen they should 
be, and that in more vile manner than before." An army was sent 
against them, and all who did not escape into the woods were slain. 
Mackintosh admits that " the revolt was extinguished with the cruelty 
and bloodshed by which the masters of slaves seem generally anxious 
to prove that they are not of a race superior in any noble quality to 
the meanest of their bondmen. More than fifteen hundred perished by 
the hands of the hangman." But Henry Kniston states that: "Then 
the king, of his accustomed clemencie, being pricked with pitie, would 
not that the wretches should die, but spared them, being a rash and 
foolish multitude, and commanded them everie man to get him home 
to his owne house ; howbeit manie of them at the king's going awaie 
suffered the danger of death. In this miserable taking were reckoned 
to the number of iicefifie thousand.'^ 

An impartial scrutiny of the evidence afforded by those who chro- 
nicled these events, overloaded as their statements are with unsustained 
accusations and bitter abuse, satisfactorily establishes, that the origin 
and objects of the rising were just and rightful ; that it was conducted 
with courage, with wisdom, and, in the main, with moderation ; that 
its leaders were intelligent, temperate, and patriotic ; and that, had 
not their triumph been baffled by a courtly breach of faith, their reforms 
would have anticipated, by centuries, the establishment of the liberties 
of England. On the other hand, their tyrants, uniting the principles 
of Machiavel with the perfidy of his pupil, Borgia, seem to have crowded 
into their policy every crime of which power can be guilty ; and their 
servile scribes have carried the cruelty of their masters beyond the 



NOTES. 295 

tomb, and burtliened the memory of the unfortunate victims with the 
most unmerited obloquy. 

Several of the acts and actors in these scenes have been, by the 
author of Aylmere, interwoven with the insurrection which ensued 
in 1450. This liberty is induced and justified by the similarity 
of the two movements. They were provoked by the same wrongs, and 
were commenced in the same county ; they both were contests between 
an imbecile monarch and his outraged subjects; in both, the commons 
bore themselves with the same patriotic moderation, the court with the 
same feebleness and falsehood ; — the people triumphed by valour, to be 
defeated by fraud, and spared their tyrants to be sacrificed, without 
mercy, themselves. The actors, in each, found fortune and history, 
their own generation and postei'ity, equally unjust and cruel. 

The period which had, meanwhile, elapsed, had reduced England in 
1450 to nearly the same condition as under the reign of Richard II. 
Again the degenerate son of a heroic father occupied the throne, from 
which he was doomed to be borne to a prison and a grave. Henry, 
indeed, was irresponsible to censure, for his weakness amounted to 
absolute and helpless idiocy. His foreign wife, wholly under foreign 
and criminal influences, was universally execrated for her tyranny and 
licentiousness. France, so gloriously won by the fifth Harry, was lost 
by weakness and treachery; and "the good Duke of Gloucester" had 
been basely murdered at the instigation of SujQFolk, a counsellor of the 
realm, and, as Hall calls him, " the darling of the Queen." Villenage, 
with all its sufferings and debasement, continued ; and the commons 
were ground to the dust by the exactions of the court, and the unbridled 
oppression of the barons. Thus, with disgrace abroad and agony at 
home, the contrast with the glory of the recent reign was insupportable ; 
and the popular discontent was manifested in risings, which, after the 
manner of the time, took the name of Blue Beard. So intense was the 
excitement against Say and Suffolk, that the latter, notwithstanding 
the efforts of the Queen to screen "her darling," met the fate which 
he so justly merited. Shortly after this execution, a body of the pea- 
santry of Kent met in arms, at Blackheath, under the leader whose 
brief and eventful career has been made the subject of such unmeasured 
misrepresentation. 

Even his name has, by the chroniclers, been left in doubt. " Stowe," 
says Mackintosh, "alone represents this leader's name to have really 
been Cade. In a contemporary record, he is called Mr. John Aylmere^ 



296 NOTES. 

Physician.'''' (Ellis's Letters, I,, second series, 112.) This account seems 
to be fully entitled to credit : it accords with the language and deport- 
ment of the chief of the commons; and we doubt not that such were 
his name and profession. It was, however, usual in such commotions, 
to give, to prominent actors, probably for purposes of concealment and 
security, fictitious and popular names. Thus we have seen that Wat 
Tyler assumed the name of Jack Straw ; and Fabyan says of William 
Mandeville, that ''for to draw the people unto him, he called himself 
Jack Sharpe." All the popular leaders appear thus to have borne 
names for the war. But Aylmere was not only called Jack Cade: 
Polyclironicon says that he was " of some named John Mendall." The 
chronicles furnish no proof that he ever acknowledged the name of 
Cade. In his communications with the government, he used merely the 
title of " Captain of the Commons." Mackintosh characterizes him as 
"a leader of disputed descent, who had been transmitted to posterity 
with the nickname of John Cade. On him they bestowed the honourable 
name of John Mortimer, with manifest allusion to the claims of the 
house of Mortimer to the succession ; which were, however, now indis- 
putably vested in Richard, Duke of York." It seems that the friends 
of the Duke of York favoured the insurrection, a fact of itself sufficient 
to attach dignity and importance to the movement. Hall and Hollinshed 
agree in this statement. "Those that fauored the Duke of Yorke, and 
wished the crowne upon his head, for that (as they judged) he had 
more right thereto than he that ware it, procured a commotion in Kent 
in this manner. A certeine young man of a goodlie stature and right 
pregnaunt of wit, was intised to take upon him the name of John Mor- 
timer, coosine to the Duke of Yorke, and not for a small policie, thinking 
by that surname, that those which fauored the house of the Earle of 
Marche would be assistant to him. And so indeed it came to passe." 
If Aylmere permitted this title to be given him, he certainly did not use 
it in his addresses to the King and Parliament, nor in his letters which 
have been preserved. It is also certain that the name of Mortimer 
could not, in any event, have promoted any personal design ; and that 
he never claimed power, rank, or reward for himself, his simple title 
being The Captain, and his sole efforts confined to the amelioration of 
the condition of the people. So far from seeking revolution, he most 
emphatically proclaimed his loyalty ; and all his acts were in the name 
of the king. The title of Mortimer may have been given him as a 
demonstration of respect, for Fabyan says that "the multitude named 



NOTE S. 297 

him Mortimer, and this kept the people wondrously togither" — and not 
from a belief that he was connected with the popular line of John of 
Gaunt ; or if the delusion actually existed, he may have forborne to 
correct it, from a desire to secure the sway over his people necessary 
to control them and repress disorder. 

The leader who assumed this bold attitude of calm resistance must 
have been, if a physician at that period, superior to most of his oppo- 
nents in the limited learning of the age. We have seen him described 
by the chroniclers, as " a young man of goodly stature and right preg- 
nant of wit." His letters, his addresses to the King and Parliament, 
his interview with the commissioners of the court, and the general 
tenor of his proceedings, prove the possession of an intellect of no 
ordinary cultivation and force ; and his military skill and success indi- 
cate experience and sagacity as a soldier. His first measure, after 
assuming a position on Blackheath, was to proclaim distinctly the 
object of " the assembly of the commons." We learn from Hall and 
Hollinshed, that "this capteine assembling a great companie of tall 
personages, assured them that the enterprize which he tooke in hand 
was both honorable to God and the king, and profitable to the whole 
realme. For if either by force or policie they might get the king and 
queene into their hands, he would cause them to be honorablie used, 
and such order for the punishing and reforming of the misdemeanors 
of their bad counsellours, that neither fifteens should hereafter be de- 
manded, nor once anie impositions or taxes be spoken of. The Kentish 
people, moved at these persuasions and other faire promises of reforma- 
tion, in good order of battell (but not in greate number) came with 
their capteine vnto Blackheath, and there kept the field more than a 
month." During this period, " he made such ordinances among them 
that he brought a great number of people unto the Blackheath." (Fa- 
byan.) He maintained also a correspondence with London, and his 
letters of safeguard to citizens passing to and from the camp and city 
are formally and well drawn, and prove that even then he received 
supplies of money and arms from the capital. While thus organizing 
and disciplining his host, with a calmness and deliberation which mani- 
fest anything but the madness ascribed to him, "he devised," — says 
Fabyan — "a bill of petitions to the king and his council, and shewed 
therein what injuries and oppressions the poor commons suflFered by 
such as were about the king." This proceeding is thus characterized 
by Hollinshed: "And to the intent the cause of this glorious cap- 



298 NOTES. 

tain's coming tliither, might be shadowed vnder a cloke of good mean- 
ing (though his intent nothing so) he sent vnto the king an humble 
supplication, affirming that his coming was not against his grace, but 
against such of his councellors, as were loners of themselues and op- 
pressors of the poor coramonaltie ; flatterers of the king and enimies of 
his honour ; suckers of his purse, and robbers of his subiects ; parciall 
to their friends, and extreame to their enimies ; through bribes cor- 
rupted, and for indifferencie dooing nothing." The Parliament was 
then in session ; and this bill of complaint, together with the requests 
of the commons, was sent to that body as well as to the King. The 
'* Complaint of the commons of Kent, and the causes of their assemblie 
.on the Clackheathe" comprises fifteen items, set forth with great clear- 
ness and force, and manifesting as high an order of learning and ability 
as any state paper of the times. We extract the Bill of Complaints 
from Hollinshed, as affording conclusive evidence that Aylmere, instead 
of being the ignorant, ferocious, and vulgar ruffian generally supposed, 
was a patriot eminently enlightened and discreet. 

" The Requests hy the Capieine of the great assemblie in Kent. 

<' Impmnis, desireth the capteine of the commons, the welfare of our 
souereigne lord the king, and all true lords spirituall and temporall, 
desiring of our said souereigne lord, and of all the true lords of his 
councell, he to take in all his demaines, that he male reigne like a king 
roiall, according as he is borne our true and Christian king anointed : 
and who so will sale the contrarie, we all will liue and die in the quar- 
rell as his true liege men. 

" Item', desireth the said capteine, that he will avoide all the false 
progenie and affinitie of the Duke of SuflTolke, the which been openlie 
knowne, and they to be punished after the custome and law of this 
land, and to take about his noble person the true lords of his roiall 
blood of this his realme, that is to sale, the high and mightie prince 
the Duke of York, late exiled from our said sovereigne lord's presence 
(by the motion and stirring of the traitorous and false disposed the 
Duke of Suflfolke and his affinitie), and the mightie princes and dukes 
of Exeter, Buckingham and NorfFolke, and all the earles and barons of 
this land : and then shall he be the richest king Christian. 

" Item, desireth the said capteine and commons punishment vnto the 
false traitors, the which contriued and imagined the death of the high 
and mightfull and excellent prince the Duke of Gloucester, the which is 



NOTES. 



299 



too much to rehearse ; the which duke was proclaimed as a traitor. 
Vpon the which quarrell, we purpose all to Hue and die vpon that it is 
false. 

^^ Item, the Duke of Exeter, our holie father the cardinall, the noble 
prince the Duke of Warwicke, and also the realme of France, the duchie 
of Normandie, Gascoigne, and Guion, Aniou and Maine, were deliuered 
and lost by meanes of the said traitors ; and our true lords, knights 
and esquires and manie a good yeoman lost and sold yer they went, the 
which is a great pitie to hear, of the great and greevous losse to our 
souereigne and his realme. 

" Item, desireth the said capteine and commons, that all extortions 
vsed dailie among the common people might be laid down, that is to 
sale, the greene wax : the which is falslie vsed to the perpetuall de- 
struction of the king's true commons of Kent. Also the Kings Bench, 
the which is too greefefull to the shire of Kent, without provision of 
our souereign lord and his true councell. And also in taking of wheate 
and other graines, beefe, mutton and all other vittles, the which is 
importable to the said commons, without the breefe prouision of our 
said souereigne and his true councell, they may no longer beare it. 
And also vnto the statute of labourers, and the great extortioners, the 
which is to sale the false traitors, Sleg, Cromer, Isle, and Robert Est." 

These "requests" the council whom they accused, "disallowed and 
condemned ;" and constrained the royal puppet in their keeping to 
march against the rebels. But so general and decided was the confi- 
dence in the rectitude of the motives and measures of the commons and 
their leader, that not only the mass of the people, but many of the fol- 
lowers of the king and court, embraced their cause. Hollinshed says 
that " the king removed from Westminster vnto Greenwich, from whence 
he would haue sent certaine lords with a power to haue distressed the 
Kentishmen, but the men said to their lords that they would not fight 
against them that -laboured to amend the common weale : wherefore the 
lords were driuen to leaue their purpose. And bicause the Kentishmen 
cried out against the lord Sale the kings chamberleine, he was by the 
king committed to the tower of London." The same course had been 
pursued in relation to Suffolk ; and Say, against whom the nation was 
deeply and justly incensed, would also have been released by the court, 
on the first opportunity, had not its action been anticipated by the 
commons. 

Some days after, the king marched against the force under Aylmere ; 



300 



NOTES. 



but that leader seems to have been averse to the commencement of 
actual hostilities, especially against the king in person; and he retired 
before him, taking post at Seven-oak, -when the king returned to 
London. The ^vithdrawal of Aylmere is considered, by the chroniclers, 
who can imagine no good of the people's chief, a mere feint to entice 
the royal army into a more unfavourable position. The queen, "that 
bare rule," shortly after sent Sir Humphrey Stafford, with an army, to 
disperse the rebels. The captain still desired to avoid the eflFusion of 
blood; and we are told by Fabyan that, "when Sir Humphrey with 
his company drew near to Seven-Oak, he xvas roamed of the captain.''^ 
But this generous caution and unusual moderation, doubtless ascribed 
to pusillanimity, did not avail; and Aylmere met the inevitable issue 
with the skill and courage of a tried soldier. "When," says the same 
author, "Sir Humphrey had counselled with the other gentleman, he, 
like a manfull knight, set upon the rebels, and fought them long. But 
in the end the captain slew him and his brother, with many other, and 
caused the rest to give back. All which season the king's host lay 
still upon Blackheath, being among them sundry opinions ; so that 
some and many favoured the captain. But finally when word came of 
the overthrow of the Staffords, they said plainly, boldly, that except 
the Lord Say and other rehearsed were committed to ward, they would 
take the captain's party." It was then that Say was sent to the tower. 
The feeling must have been strong indeed, and well founded, that in- 
duced such a demand from such a source, and that in a voice so poten- 
tial and imperative as to enforce immediate acquiescence. 

After this important victory, the leader of the Commons, says Mack- 
intosh, "assumed the attire, ornaments and style of a knight; and, 
under the title of captain, he professed to preserve the country by en- 
forcing the rigid observance of discipline among his followers." Having 
refreshed his people, he resumed his position on Blackheath, " where 
he strongly encamped himself, diverse idle and vagrant persons," says 
Hollinshed, " out of Sussex, Sum-ie, and other places, still increasing 
his number." The king and his council were now fully aroused to a 
sense of their danger ; and they determined to have recourse to the 
policy of negotiation, promises and pei-fidy, found so effective in the 
previous insurrection. They accordingly sent to the leader, whose 
humble "requests" they had received with such disdain, the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury and the Duke of Buckingham, to treat of an ac- 
commodation. The report of this interview, derived, as it is, from 



NOTES. 301 

writers prompt to blacken Aylmere, and reluctant to admit the slightest 
point in his favour, establishes, beyond doubt, the elevation of his cha- 
racter and deportment. Fabyan says that the royal commissioners 
"had with him long communication, and found him right discrete in 
his answers. Howbeit, they could not cause him to lay down his peo- 
ple, and submit him (unconditionally) to the king's grace." Hollins- 
hed's account, after Hall, is more full and expressive. " These lords 
found him sober in talke, wise in reasoning, arrogant in hart, and stiffe 
in opinion ; as who that by no means would grant to dissolue his armie, 
except the king in person would come to him, and assent to the things' 
he would require." The captain, it seems, remembered the ill faith 
practised towards Wat Tyler, and was unwilling to place it in the power 
of the court to re-enact that tragedy. Subsequent events proved how 
just were his suspicions. 

The king was alarmed by the firm attitude of Aylmere, and still more 
by the disaffection evident among his followers ; and according to Hol- 
linshed, "upon the presumptuous answers and requests of this villanous 
rebell, beginning as much to doubt his owne meniall seruants as his 
vnknowen subiects (which spared not to speake, that the capteines 
cause was profitable to the commonwealth), departed in all hast to the 
castell of Killingworth, in Warwikeshire, leaning onlie behind him the 
Lord Scales to keepe the Tower of London." The captain, notwith- 
standing his recent victory, his great force, and the natural impatience 
of his host, had forborne to advance against the king ; but his retreat 
rendered some decisive action now necessary. Nothing was to be ex- 
pected from the court. Time was pressing ; for delay multiplied his 
dangers, and increased the difiiculty of holding together and restraining 
so vast and undisciplined a multitude. His only course was to take 
possession of the capital, and redress, through such legal authorities 
as he found in existence, or upon the warrant of the nation's expressed 
will, the grievances under which the realm was groaning. This step 
was, however, attended with great difficulty and peril, arising from his 
own aversion to the assumption of permanent authority, and the absence 
of the Duke of York, who might then have taken upon him, as he did 
afterwards, the supreme control of affairs ; and from the character of 
his force and the absence of regular resources for its maintenance. To 
prevent the excesses so much to be apprehended, he rigidly enforced 
the laws; or, as Fabyan has it, "to the end to blind the more people, 
and to bring him in fame that he kept good justice, he beheaded there 
a petty captain of his, named Parrys, for so much as he had offended 

26 



802 NOTES. 

against such ordinance as he had established in his host. And hearing 
that the king and his lords had thus departed, drew him near unto the 
city, so that upon the first day of July he entered the burgh of South- 
wark." Anxious to proceed with the strictest regard to the peace and 
the privileges of the city, Aylmere, next day, caused the authorities 
of London to be convened. " The Mayor called the Common Council 
at the Guildhall, for to purvey the understanding of these rebels, and 
other matters, in which assembly were divers opinions, so that some 
thought good that the said rebels should be received into the city, and 
some otherwise." (Fabyan.) He was, however, admitted. This sub- 
mission to authority by a rebel at the head of a victorious army, is, 
the age and circumstances considered, a remarkable feature of the in- 
surrection. " The same afternoon, about five of the clock, the captain, 
with his people, entered by the Bridge : and when he came upon the 
Drawbridge, he hew the ropes that drew the bridge in sunder with his 
sword, and so passed into the city, and made in sundry places thereof 
proclamations in the kind's name, that no man, upon pain of death, 
should rob or take anything per force without paying therefor. By 
reason whereof he won many hearts of the commons of the city ; but," 
continues the charitable Fabyan, " all was done to beguile the people, 
as after shall evidently appear. He rode through divers streets of the 
city, and as he came by London stone, he strake it with his sword, and 
said, 'Now is Mortimer lord of this city!' And when he had thus 
showed himself in divers places in the city, and showed his mind to 
the Mayor for the ordering of his people, he returned into Southwark, 
and there abode as he had before done, his people coming and going 
at lawful hours when they would." Thus, it seems that he acted in 
full concert with the authorities; that he did everything in his power 
to prevent and punish disorder; and that so anxious was he to avoid 
popular tumult, that he withdrew his force from the city, and did not 
permit his people to enter it, except "at lawful times." The history 
of the times exhibits no instance of such consideration for the welfare 
of the people, on the part of monarchs or their barons, as is here mani- 
fested by " the villainous rebel." 

It was necessary that Lord Say should be brought to trial. As he 
was in the custody of Lord Scales, this must have taken place with the 
sanction and actual aid of the court. " On the third day of July," 
says Fabyan, "the said captain entered again the city, and caused the 
Lord Say to be fetched from the tower, and led into Guildhall, where 
he was arraigned before the mayor and other of the king's justices." 



NOTES. 303 

Of his guilt there seems to have been neither doubt nor denial. Hol- 
linshed tells us that "being before the king's justices put to answer, he 
desired to be tried by his peeres, for the longer delaie of his life. The 
capteine perceiving his dilatorie plea, by force tooke him from the offi- 
cers, and brought him to the standard in Cheape;" where he suffered 
military execution, a result which, in the excited state of public sen- 
timent, probably could not have been averted, and which the heavy 
catalogue of his crimes, and the certainty that the queen, had time 
been afforded, would have shielded him, perhaps justified. William 
Croumer, his brother-in-law and instrument, and one of those charged 
before Parliament, suffered at the same time. These executions are 
bitterly denounced by the chroniclers; but, according to their own ac- 
counts, Aylmere punished more of his own men for violations of the 
law, than he did of those whose crimes and cruelty had provoked the 
insurrection ; and it may be doubted whether history affords an instance 
of greater moderation and lenity, under circumstances so peculiar, than 
were exhibited by him, with the oppressors of his country in his power, 
and a maddened people calling for justice. 

The leader of the Commons continued, from a regard for the public 
safety, to occupy his position in Southwark until the sixth of July. 
During this period it is alleged that, in two instances, he made requisi- 
tions upon wealthy citizens of London ; and, indeed, it was only by such 
means that so large a host could have been sustained. This appears 
to have alarmed the mayor and aldermen ; and it is also probable that 
the utmost vigilance and rigour did not wholly repress occasional out- 
rages of a character to excite the fears of the more wealthy citizens. 
The aid of Lord Scallys and Sir Matthew Gough, "then having the 
tower in guiding," was, under these apprehensions, solicited to prevent 
the re-entrance of Aylmere into London. This induced a collision, 
" and a battle or bloody scuffle was continued during the night on Lon- 
don Bridge, in which success seemed to incline to the insurgents." 
(Mackintosh.) In the morning a truce for certain hours was effected, 
during which a negotiation took place between the Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, representing the king, and the captain of the Commons. On 
the part of the former, everything would naturally be promised, for it 
was designed that no promise should be observed ; and a covenant for 
all that was demanded was as readily violated as one for a part. The 
leader of the Commons must have been conscious that his force could 
only be maintained by a forcible and necessarily unpopular levy of con- 
ributions ; and that even if maintained, their impatience of discipline 



804 NOTES. 

and anxiety to return to their homes rendered them unfit for the pro- 
tracted struggle that seemed impending. To continue in the field 
threatened the worst horrors of civil war, a war in which he could 
have but little hope of long restraining his followers. Every conside- 
ration of humanity and patriotism seemed therefore to dictate an ac- 
ceptance of the profi'ered concessions of the court. The compact was 
therefore concluded ; and the Commons thus won a seeming triumph. 
What was covenanted on the part of the court does not appear ; for 
the chroniclers are silent on that head, and the people " had no histo- 
rians." Fabyan, however, informs us that "the Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, then Chancellor of England, sent a general pardon to the 
captain for himself, and another for his people; by reason whereof he 
and his company departed the same night out of Southwark, and so 
returned every man to his home." 

The sequel is briefly told ; it is the old tale of perfidy and blood. 
The pardon was immediately revoked. "Proclamations were made in 
divers places of Kent, of Southsex, and Sowthery, that who might 
take the aforesaid Jack Cade, either alive or dead, should have a thou- 
sand marks for his travayle." He was pursued and slain; "and so 
being dead was brought into Southwark. And upon the morrow, the 
dead corpse was drawn through the high streets of the city unto New- 
gate, and there headed and quartered, whose head was then sent to 
London Bridge, and his four quarters were sent to four sundry towns 
of Kent." (Fabyan.) 

The following spirited extract, from the works of the late Mr. Leg- 
gett, is perhaps the only attempt hitherto made to do justice to the 
chivalrous and enlightened but unfortunate and much-maligned chief- 
tain of the Commons. It was unknown to the author until after the 
production of the tragedy. 

"It is heart-sickening to see men, citizens of this free republic and 
partakers of its equal blessings, assume without examination, and use 
without scruple, as terms of reproach, the epithets with which lying 
historians and panders to royalty have branded those, whose only crime 
was their opposing, with noble ardour and courage, the usurpations of 
tyranny, and setting themselves up as assertors of the natural and ina- 
lienable rights of their oppressed fellow-men. 

" Have the editors who use the name of Cade as a word of scorn 
looked into the history of that heroic man ? Have they sifted out, from 
the mass of prejudice, bigotry and servility, which load the pages of 
the old chroniclers, the facts in relation to his extraordinary career ? 



NOTES. 305 

Have they acquainted themselves with the oppressions of the times ; 
the lawless violence of the nobles ; the folly and rapacity of the 
monarch ; the extortion and cruelty of his ministers ; and the general 
contempt which was manifested for the plainest and dearest rights of 
humanity ? Have they consulted the pages of Stow, and Hall, and 
Hollinshed, who, parasites of royalty as they were, and careful to ex- 
clude from their chronicles whatever might grate harshly on the delicate 
ears of the privileged orders, have not yet been able to conceal the 
justice of the cause for which Cade contended, the moderation of his 
demands, or the extraordinary forbearance of his conduct ? Have they 
looked into those matters for themselves, and divested the statements 
of the gloss of prejudice and servility, judged of the man by a simple 
reference to the facts of his conduct, and the nature and strength of 
his motives ? Or have they been content to learn his character from 
the scenes of a play, or the pages of that king-worshipper, that pimp 
and pander to aristocracy, the tory Hume, who was ever ready to lick 
absurd pomp, and give a name of infamy to any valiant spirit that had 
the courage and true nobleness to stand forward in defence of the rights 
of his fellow-men ? 

*' Let those who use the name of Cade as a term of reproach re- 
member that the obloquy which blackens his memory flowed from the 
same slanderous pens that denounced as rebels and traitors, and with 
terms of equal bitterness, though not of equal contumely, the Hampdens 
and Sydneys of England — glorious apostles and martyrs in the cause of 
civil liberty ! Let them remember, too, that, as the philosophic Mack- 
intosh observes, all we know of Cade is through his enemies — a fact 
which of itself would impress a just and inquiring mind with the neces- 
sity of examination for itself, before adopting the current slang of the 
aristocracy of Great Britain. 

*' The very name of Jack Cade, if we take the pains to look into 
contemporary historians, is but a nickname conferred upon the leader 
of the Kentish insurrection, in order to increase the obloquy with which 
it was the policy of Henry VI. and his licentious nobles to load the 
memory of that heroic and treacherously murdered man. But whatever 
was his name or origin, and whatever might have been his private 
motives and character, if we judge of him by the authentic facts of 
history alone, we shall find nothing that does not entitle him to the 
admiration of men who set a true value on liberty, and revere those 
who peril their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honour, to achieve 
it from the grasp of tyrants, or defend it against their encroachments. 

26* 



806 NOTES. 

Nothing can exceed the grossness of the oppressions under which the 
people laboured when Cade took up arms. Nothing can exceed the 
arbitrary violence with which their property was wrested from their 
hands, or the ignominious punishments which were causelessly inflicted 
on their persons. The kingdom was out of joint. An imbecile and 
rapacious monarch on the throne ; a band of licentious and factious 
nobles around him ; a parliament ready to impose any exactions on the 
commons ; and all the minor offices of government filled with a species 
of freebooters, who deemed the possessions of the people their lawful 
prey ; — in such a state of things, the burdens under which the great 
mass of Englishmen laboured must have been severe in the extreme. 

"If Cade was the wretched fanatic which it has pleased the greatest 
dramatic genius of the world (borrowing his idea of that noble rebel 
from old Hollinshed) to represent him, how did it happen that twenty 
thousand men flocked to his standard the moment it was unfurled ? 
How did it happen that his statement of grievances was so true, and 
his demands for redress so moderate, that, even according to Hume 
himself, "the council, observing that nobody was willing to fight against 
men so reasonable in their pretensions, carried the king for safety to 
Kenilworth ?" How did it happen, as related by Fabian, that the Duke 
of Buckingham and the Archbishop of Canterbury being sent to nego- 
tiate with him, were obliged to acknowledge that they found him 
" right discrete in his answers ; howbeit they could not cause him td 
lay down his people, and to submit him (unconditionally) unto the 
king's grace." But we need not depend upon the opinions of historians 
for the reasonableness of his demands. Hollinshed has recorded his 
list of grievances and stipulations of redress ; and let those who think 
the term Jack Cade synonymous with ignorant and ferocious rebel and 
traitor, examine it ; let them compare it with the grievances which led 
our fathers to take up arms against their mother country, nor lay them 
down until they achieved a total separation ; let them look at it in 
reference to what would be their own feelings under a tithe part of the 
wrongs ; and, our life on it, they will pause before they again use the 
word in such a sense. Nay more : let them follow Cade through his 
whole career ; let them behold him in the midst of insurrection, check- 
ing the natural fierceness of his followers, restraining their passions, 
and compelling them by the severest orders to respect private property ; 
see him withdrawing his forces each night from London, when he had 
taken possession of that city, that its inhabitants might sleep without 
fear or molestation; mark him continually endeavouring to fix the 



NOTES. 307 

attention of the people solely on those great ends of public right and 

justice for -which alone he had placed himself in arms against his king ; 

let them look at Cade in these points of view, and we think their un- 

\founded prejudices will speedily give way to very different sentiments. 

<' Follow him to the close of his career ; see him deserted by his fol- 
lowers, under a general but deceitful promise of pardon from the 
government ; trace him afterwards a fugitive through the country with 
a reward set upon his head, in violation of the edict which but a few 
days before had absolved him of the crime of rebellion on condition of 
laying down his arms ; behold him at last entrapped by a wretch and 
basely murdered ; weigh his whole character as exhibited by all the 
prominent traits of his life and fortune, remembering, too, that all you 
know of him is from those who dipped their pens in ink only to blacken 
his name, and you will at last be forced to acknowledge that instead 
of the scorn of mankind, he deserves to be ranked among those glorious 
martyrs who have sacrificed their lives in defence of the rights of man. 
The derision and contumely which have been heaped on Cade, would 
have been heaped upon those who achieved the liberty of this country, 
had they been equally unsuccessful in their struggle. It ill then be- 
comes republicans, enjoying the freedom which they achieved, admiring 
the intrepidity of their conduct, and revering their memory, to use the 
name of one who sacrificed his life in an ill-starred eflFort in defence of 
the same glorious and universal principles of equal liberty, as a byword 
and term of mockery and reproach. 

"Cade was defeated, and his very name lies buried underneath the 
rubbish of nations. But his example did not die. Those who are 
curious in historical research may easily trace the influence of the 
principles which Cade battled to establish, through succeeding reigns. 
If they follow the stream of history from the sixth Henry downwards, 
they will find that the same sentiments of freedom were continually 
breaking away from the restraints of tyranny, and that the same 
grievances complained of by the leader of the Kentish insurrection, 
were the main cause of all the risings of the commons, till at last the 
cup of oppression, filled to overflowing, was dashed to the earth by an 
outraged people, the power of the throne was shaken to its centre, and 
the evils under which men long had groaned were remedied by a revo- 
lution." 

There has been no attempt in the following work to adhere strictly 
to the facts of history ; though the author has endeavoured generally 
to portray the condition of the people and the causes and character of 



308 NOTES. 

the insurrection. It is imagined, in the play, that the leader of the 
commons was originally a villein by the name of Cade ; afterwards a 
fugitive known as Aylmere ; then, after an absence abroad, returning 
to England, he excites an insurrection, for the double purpose of aveng- 
ing his own wrongs and of abolishing the institution, villeinage, which 
made him a bondman. After his triumph, he resumes his original 
name. — The tragedy, as originally written and now presented to the 
reader, comprises much that was not designed for and is not adapted 
to the stage. As played, it has been so curtailed and modified that the 
author presumes that he need not apprehend the hazardous experiment 
of its representation in its present shape. To the judgment and taste 
of Mr. Forrest he is indebted for the suggestions which prepared 
'"'■ Aylmere''^ for the stage; and to the eminent genius of that unrivalled 
tragedian and liberal patron of dramatic literature, its flattering suc- 
cess at home and abroad may be justly ascribed. 



NOTES TO THE SONS OF THE WILDERNESS. 

Note 1, p. 168. 

The outrage at Secotan was one of the first and worst committed by 
the English. The earliest colonists of that section of the country 
appear to have been, for the most part, a band of reckless adventurers. 
They were not impelled to the daring enterprise by religious zeal, a 
hatred of oppression, or a desire to seek a refuge and home in America ; 
but came to patch up the fortunes which their prodigality had wasted, 
by seizing the golden treasures of the new world. They contemplated 
no permanent abode in the country, and came, not to win by their 
labour the wilderness into smiles, but by deeds of desperate and unholy 
emprise to throttle Fortune, as it were, and compel her favours. Im- 
patient, heady and unscrupulous, they respected no right and paused 
at no outrage. Perhaps it may be harsh to denominate them a band 
of robbers and murderers ; but if rifling and destroying the natives be 
robbery and murder, the epithets would not be misapplied. The sole 
object of the first colonists under Sir Richard Grenville was gold ; and, 
failing in this, their disappointment was wreaked upon the inoffensive 



NOTES. 



309 



natives. The latter relieved them from their wants, and even saved 
them from starvation ; and, in return, the colonists fired one of their 
towns, to revenge a suspected and trifling theft ; and attacked a con- 
course of 1800 natives when in attendance upon the funeral of their 
king, killing all who did not escape into the woods. This colony 
perished from its own vices ; and every attempt to settle Virginia 
failed until 1607, when the energy of the celebrated Smith secured 
success. 

Note 2, p. 169. 

Some observations on the pretexts used by the early settlers, and by 
their eulogists since, to justify their aggressions, may not be inappro- 
priate ; but the limits of a note will not admit even a cursory view of 
the general character of the policy of the whites to the injured and 
almost obliterated people from whom was stolen the land upon which 
our household altars have been reared. Had we space it would be 
gratifying to do justice to them, and justice, however harsh, to their 
oppressors. But why, it may be asked, should such an investigation 
be made ? Why should we toil to remove the superincumbent errors 
which conceal our origin, when our labour must be rewarded only with 
regret and humiliation ? Let the invidious task be left to foreign 
hands ; and be it our more grateful duty to cherish national pride in- 
stead of self-reproach. The task is one of peril ; but it is not the less 
attractive. There is nothing more elevated than a well-founded national 
pride ; there is nothing more abject than national vanity, founded in 
falsehood and prejudice. We, as a nation, are too rich in Just glory, 
to borrow the flickering glare of fable. The truth can detract nothing 
from a national history whose career has been sun-like ; and his 
patriotism must be sickly indeed who can regard a country like ours 
with less of pride, because, though most of the nations of old claimed 
to derive their origin from gods, history proves that we have sprung 
from mere mortals. The national egotism which can be thus wounded, 
is not more wholesome or commendable than the same infirmity in indi- 
viduals ; in both cases it averts the eye of introspection from faults to 
be amended, and induces an unmanly self-worship, destructive of every 
better and nobler characteristic. Besides, if we conclude that the 
acquisition of this country by the whites was wrongful, we learn nothing 
more of ourselves than history tells us of every other people. From 
the chosen people, in their sanguinary conquest of the promised land, 



310 NOTES. 

down to the latest appropriation of the soil of another race, the story- 
has been the same. Force is the only fixed law of nations ; and though 
the code may not be justified, it has always been admitted. If the 
settlers of this country did attain it by injustice, they did no more — 
though far be it from us to justify it on that ground — than the Indians 
themselves boast of having done to an earlier race of inhabitants. But 
an inquii'y like this should have a higher object than to irritate or 
soothe our national pride; — that object is truth, and truth is never a 
treason ; that object is justice — justice to the dead, to the race which 
has passed away without the ability to leave the story of their wrongs 
to posterity ; justice to the living — to those who, though degraded in 
character and broken in spirit and resources, still exist, to yield when 
we demand, or, resisting, to add to the white man's victims. There 
are still upward of 300,000 Indians within the territory of the United 
States. They are at our mercy. It will be well if the contemplation 
of the crimes (we will use no gentler word) of the past can avert those 
of the future. The aborigines have been regarded as out of the pale 
of human right — by some, because they are not Christians, though the 
most enlightened of the Greeks and Romans could not boast a religion 
so pure and lofty as theirs — by others, because their maxims of morality 
and policy do not accord with those received in Europe. The candid 
inquirer will venture to treat them as men. In the intercourse between 
them and the Europeans, each should be regarded as bound by their 
own laws — the European by his international code, the Indian by the 
universal principles of natural justice. The subject of the controversy 
between the two races — a controversy of ages and empires — is the right 
to the soil. What constitutes that right ? The European originally pleaded 
the right of discovery, and, under the prerogatives thus derived, the 
charter of the crown. It is unnecessary now seriously to argue that 
such a claim cannot affect the aboriginal inhabitants. About the close 
of the fifteenth century, the elder Cabot and his son sailed along the 
coast of this country, in search of a northwest passage ; and, though 
they neither landed nor went through the farce of taking possession, 
this voyage ascertained the right of Great Britain to half a continent ! 
This is certainly an easy and comfortable mode of acquisition. The 
munificence of his holiness, the Pope, secured his Catholic Majesty still 
further privileges — the entire land and people were bestowed upon him ; 
and, thus fortified, the right to rob, murder and roast the natives became 
indisputable. But with other nations, not so fortunate, the right of 
discovery was set up, not against the natives, but against European 



NOTES. •''^11 

governments, and amounted to nothing more than a right to exclude 
other settlers. Thus far, as a means of preventing collision between 
the different European governments, that hastened, upon the wings of 
the wind, to batten upon poor America, it was most wise and prudent ; 
but, used to justify the appropriation of the land of the natives, it is 
an absurdity too gross for refutation. But another and even a worse 
claim was more frequently insisted upon. I refer to the right of con- 
quest. This title — a title which is recorded in blood — is the original 
tenure of much of the land which we now occupy. Evil is good, if 
that title be justifiable, and rapine and murder pure and praise- 
worthy. 

The only universal and unchanging right to territory on the part of 
a nation, is a time-sanctioned occupancy. That right is based in the 
necessity of things, in the order of Providence, in justice and in reason : 
treaties and titles are not its source, but its evidence ; and it exists as 
fully without as with them. But ^ohat constitutes such occupancy ? It is 
urged that the best occupancy — that which will sustain, in a certain 
territory, the largest number of inhabitants — is the most rightful. If 
that be the case, England has a rightful claim to any sparsely-settled 
portion of Russia which she may select, and China to any part of 
England more thinly occupied than her own territory. The better 
portion of our own country may be appropriated under this claim, and 
we will have no right to remonstrate against the invasion. This ab- 
surdity cannot be received, or the settled condition of nations would be 
lost, and the world would become the theatre of a universal and eternal 
war. 

It is only necessary that the occupancy, for whatever purpose, should 
be actual. Whether possessed for agriculture, for grazing, or for 
hunting, if the possession be not a constructive, but a real one, it is 
sufficient to constitute a right to the soil. That our Indians were thus 
in possession of all sections of the country will not be denied. From 
the mounds and other evidences discovered, there is reason to believe 
that the population was, at one time, even crowded. Shortly previous 
to the Plymouth settlement, a plague prevailed which carried off large 
numbers of the inhabitants, and which was charitably characterized 
by the pious colonists, as a great providence, inasmuch as it destroyed 
"multitudes of the barbarous heathen to make way for the chosen 
people of God." Notwithstanding the ravages of this pestilence, the 
pilgrims found the land still populous. Nor were the inhabitants 
wholly, nor even mainly, dependent on the chase : they were an agri- 



312 NOTES. 

cultural people, however rude their tillage. The New England immi- 
grants made their first settlements on the very corn-fields of the natives ; 
the Virginians were sustained by levying contributions in maize from 
the aborigines ; and the settlements on the Delaware were relieved, in 
their extremity, by the agricultural productions voluntarily tendered 
by the benevolent Indians. Those of the original settlers who affected 
a regard for justice, did not deny the rightful and exclusive possession 
of the land by the natives ; on the contrary, they acknowledged their 
title by purchase, and their jurisdiction by treaty. The very necessity 
of such a course — and nothing but necessity induced it — is the strongest 
evidence that the original inhabitants not only possessed the country, 
but possessed it in sufiicient power to repel a forceful invasion. It may 
be maintained, therefore, that, at the pei-iod of the European migra- 
tions to this country, the Indians were the exclusive lords of the soil; 
and that all acts in derogation of their right were violations of national 
law and natural justice. 

It is better perhaps that this country should be crowded with a civi- 
lized population, than left to a possession disputed between savage 
beasts and men but little less savage. But though we may rejoice in 
our rich heritage, a blameless one to us and to our forefathers for many 
generations, still we should know that it is a heritage of blood. Nor 
should we be betrayed into the awful error that the eternal principles 
of. justice can yield to a " blood-boltered" expediency. Though it was 
desirable that the Europeans should settle America, it was more desi- 
rable that the rights of the inhabitants should be observed. The 
settlers should have come in the name of peace and justice ; they should 
have extorted nothing by force, and won nothing by indirection. Their 
policy should have been such that, for the advantages received from 
the natives, the natives should have been proportionably and perma- 
nently benefitted. 

Note 3, p. 169. 

The character of that extraordinary adventurer is too well known to 
justify its portraiture here ; but we may remark that, romantic as was 
his courage and love of adventure, he appears to have known no higher 
rule of action than expediency, and to have shrunk from no treachery 
nor outrage to efi"ect his purpose. At the head of the Virginia colonists 
he appears, in his conduct to the Indians, to have acted wholly in the 
character of a chief of banditti. One of the first of his exploits was to 



NOT E S. 313 

head a marauding expedition against the unoffending natives, to attack 
their towns, fire upon their people, and rob their granaries. These 
outrages were constantly resorted to when stratagem failed ; and the 
colonists were actually fed and sustained by systematic robbery. The 
forbearance of the natives under these wrongs appears incredible. But 
it seems that, in all the European colonies, the audacity of the whites 
at first stunned the Indians into a bewildered stupor. Superstition, 
also, spread its dark and protecting wings over the strangers, and, 
though the Indian warrior hated, he dared not strike. After a time, 
the delusion passed away, and they combined to redeem their land ; 
but the invaders had grown strong while they hesitated, and their 
efforts were fruitless. 

Smith's adventures in Virginia are so interwoven with the romance of 
our country, that even our children are familiar with them. The de- 
predations of the whites were, at intervals, continued. They seized 
the land of the natives, as if it had been their own ; and when fraud 
was inadequate to obtain as much corn as was required, there was an 
unhesitating recourse to violence. Upon one occasion, when the supply 
of provisions was low. Smith proceeded to Pumunkey, the residence of 
Opecancanough, and, when the chief refused to supply him. Smith 
seized him by the hair of his head, in the midst of his men, "with his 
pistol readie bent against his breast. Thus he held the trembling 
king, near dead with fear, and led him amongst his people. They, 
fearing for the life of their chief, came in laden with presents to redeem 
him, and soon freighted the boats of the English with provisions." 
These and other outrages excited in Opecancanough the utmost abhor- 
rence of the whites ; and he made it the business of a long life to 
extirpate them. 

Lord De La War, who succeeded Smith in Virginia, pursued a course 
in comparison with which the outrages of Smith were benevolent and 
praiseworthy. In order to strike terror in Powhattan, the Indian em- 
peror, he directed that an Indian should be caught, then caused his 
right hand to be chopped off, and sent him, thus maimed and bleeding, 
to Powhattan, with instructions that, unless the monarch humbled him- 
self, such should be the fate of all the Indians. The same policy in- 
duced the capture of Pocahontas. She had been the guardian angel 
of the colony ; and, in addition to the rescue of Smith, had, on several 
occasions, with great exertion and at fearful peril, saved the settlement 
from destruction by the Indians. In grateful return for all these ser- 
vices, the English bribed an Indian to betray the devoted princess into 

27 



314 NOTES. 

their hands, and made her a prisoner. The stern old chief staggered 
beneath this unexpected blow ; he was not prepared for the fell ana- 
tomy by which the white man probed the paternal weakness of his 
heart; and to save his child from the white man's gratitude and 
mercy, he, after a severe mental conflict, submitted to a peace : the 
father triumphed, the monarch yielded, and Powhattan became, in 
effect, the vassal of the strangers. 

Opecancanough, the second in succession from Powhattan, seemed 
chosen by nature as the scourge of the white men. He had early dis- 
trusted their character and purposes ; and, after the outrage upon his 
own personal dignity, he swore, against the invaders of his country, a 
hostility as settled and more sacred than that of Hannibal against 
Rome. He determined to adopt some wide and sweeping scheme of 
destruction ; and, as the measure of his people's wrongs was overflow- 
ing, they readily united in his plan of vengeance. A day was fixed for 
a universal rising, and the secret, though deposited with a whole 
people, was undivulged. The day arrived ; the Indians arose from 
their ambush like so many avenging spirits, and, in one hour, 347 
whites perished. Out of eighty plantations only six were saved. This 
was the first united effort of the Indians against the invaders of their 
country. 

Next season, the settlers of Virginia, determined not to be outdone 
in barbarity by the Indians, devised a scheme of vengeance, by which 
they might attain the height of perfidy and inhumanity. They invited 
the Indians to treat with them ; they extended the most solemn assu- 
rance of forgiveness for past offences, and gave them the most sacred 
promises of security for their persons. The Indians believed them. 
They trusted, were betrayed, and murdered in great numbers. The 
deliberate falsehood, treachery and barbarity of this policy would have 
elicited universal horror had the massacre been committed by red 
savages ; perpetrated by the whites, it was passed without even a 
frown from the complaisant genius of History. 

Opecancanough escaped the slaughter to strike another blow for his 
country. Years passed over ; the chief grew old and feeble ; still he 
laboured unweariedly to unite his countrymen against the whites, and 
he succeeded. In 1644, he had coalesced the Indian tribes over an 
extent of five hundred miles, and prepared to wreak his vengeance upon 
the foes of his race. The character of this chief and the incidents of 
his conspiracy may be referred to as equal, in tragic interest, to any- 
thing in history. Opecancanough was at this time an hundred years 



NOTES. 315 

old. Age and suffering had bowed his frame to the earth, and so feeble 
was he that he was unable, without aid, even to lift his eyelids. But, 
thus wasted and worn out, he determined to lead his warriors to this 
final and desperate conflict for the possession of the graves of their 
ancestors. Historians have exhausted eulogy in describing the heroism 
of Muley Moluc, who flung himself from his litter, and sacrificed his 
life for the cause for which he struggled ; but the devotion of the Indian 
chieftain surpasses that of the Moor. Like him, he was borne into the 
conflict on a litter. He had determined to sweep the country from the 
frontier to the sea ; and five hundred whites fell beneath the tomahawks 
of his warriors, before his career of desolation was stayed. He was 
met, defeated, and taken prisoner. The time-burthened chief was 
unable to struggle against his captors, or even to see the hand that 
struck him, for some coward arm inflicted upon him a mortal wound. 
The historian informs us that just before Opecancanough expired, he 
ordered an attendant to lift his eyelids, when he discovered a multitude 
pressing around him to gratify an untimely curiosity, and see the dying 
moments of an unsubdued Indian king. Aroused and indignant, he 
deigned not to observe the crowd around him, but, raising himself from 
the ground, demanded, with the expiring breath of authority, that the 
governor should be called to him. ; j When he came, Opecancanough 
said to him, indignantly, *' Had it been my fortune to have taken Sir 
William Berkly prisoner, I would not meanly have exposed him as a 
show to my people ;" and, uttering the unfinished rebuke, he sunk back 
and expired. 

The death of Opecancanough fixed the superiority of the whites in 
Virginia so decisively, that thereafter there was nothing left to the 
Indian but submission. The volcano of Indian vengeance was ex- 
hausted ; and, though its suppressed anger was occasionally manifested 
in a muttered menace, or in the cloud which hung upon its brow, the 
terrible power which poured its eruptions of death upon the foe had 
departed. The red men of Virginia were pushed gradually beyond the 
mouutains. Their inheritance became the undisputed possession of 
the spoiler. But they carried the remembrance of their wrongs into 
the wilderness : they treasured up their wrath for the day of wrath, as 
was tragically proved by the banks of the Monongahela, on the memo- 
rable day of Braddock's defeat. 



S16 NOTES. 



Note 4, p. 170. 

After the marriage of Pocahontas and Rolfe, she visited London. 

" King James' queen and court paid her the same. honours that were 
due to a European lady of the same quality, after they were informed 
by Captain Smith what services she had done the English nation, and 
particularly how she had saved the captain's life, when his head was 
upon the block. But it seems before this princess married Rolfe, she 
had been given to understand that Captain Smith was dead ; for he 
was the first man she had set her affections upon ; and I make no doubt 
he had promised to marry her when he was in her father's court ; for, 
when he came to wait upon her, on her arrival in England, she appeared 
surprised, turned away from him with the utmost scorn and resentment, 
and it was some hours before she would be prevailed with to speak to 
him. She could not believe any man would have deceived her, for 
whom she had done so much, and run so many hazards ; and when she 
did vouchsafe to hear his excuses, she still reproached him with ingra- 
titude. In all her behaviour, 'tis said, she behaved hei'self with great 
decency, and suitable to her quality." — Salmon. 

Note 5, p. 171. 

The first offence given to the natives in New England, was by the 
robbery of a grave. The Indians cherish a superstitious and affec- 
tionate reverence for the remains of their departed, and an insult to 
the burial-place of the mother of their chief was seriously resented. 
The sachem, in an address to his warriors, said, "When last the glo- 
riovis light of all the sky was underneath this globe, and birds grew 
silent, I began to settle to repose : but, before mine eyes were closed, 
methought I saw a vision, and my spirit was much troubled. A spirit 
cried aloud. Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, the breast that 
nourished thee, the hands that lapt thee warm and fed thee oft ! canst 
thou forget to take revenge on these wild people, that have my monu- 
ment defaced in despiteful manner, disdaining our ancient antiquities 
and honourable customs ? See, now the sachem's grave lies, like unto 
the common people of ignoble race, defaced. Thy mother doth com- 
plain, implores thy aid against this thievish people now come hither. 
If this be suffered, I shall not rest in quiet within my everlasting 
habitation." This said, the spirit vanished. Having thus appealed to 
the superstitious feelings of the people, he led them against the whites, 
but a few discharges from the muskets of the English terrified them 



NOTES. 317 

into submission, and they gave in their allegiance to the King of 
England. 

An encounter took place with the natives in the infancy of the colony, 
•which reflects no credit upon the English. One of their settlements, 
being in -want of corn, supplied itself by depredations upon the Indians. 
The sufferers required that the English law should be enforced against 
the offender ; and, as the colony was too weak to risk a war, the Eng- 
lish promised satisfaction. But the real offender was a stout and 
valuable member of the colony, and they were reluctant to part with 
him. In this extremity, they sagely determined upon the following 
course. There was an old weaver in the settlement who was sick, bed- 
rid, and of course useless : they spared the real offender, as a useful 
citizen, and hanged the weaver in his place. This ludicrous incident 
has been immortalized by Hudibras. 



" This precious brother having slaiD, 
In times of peace, an Indian, 
(Not out of malice, but mere zeal, 
Because he was an infidel,) 
The natives craved the saints to render 
Unto their hands, or hang, the offender. 
But they, maturely having -weighed 
They had no more but him of the trade, 
(A man that served them in a double 
Capacity, to teach and cobble,) 
Resolved to spare him ; yet to do 
The Indian, Hogan Mogan, too. 
Impartial justice, in his stead, did 
Hang an old weaver that was bed-rid." 



But, though this matter commenced in comedy — at least to all but 
the principal actor, the scape-goat weaver — it ended in a deep and 
bloody tragedy. The Plymouth colony, having heard of the extremities 
to which the settlement first referred to had been brought, despatched 
Captain Miles Standish and a party to punish the Indians, for what 
does not appear, though it was alleged that they were insolent and 
had evil intentions. Standish, on his arrival, won the confidence of 
their chief, and invited them to partake of a feast. When they were 
assembled, Standish and his men closed the doors, snatched the Indians' 
knives which hung upon their necks, and with them slew their guests. 
Mr. Winslow, in his account of this murder, says, "It is incredible how 
many wounds these chiefs received before they died — not making any 

27* 



318 NOTES. 

fearful noise, but catching at their weapons and striving to the last." 
At the same time, all the Massachusetts Indians who had placed them- 
selves in the hands of the English were slaughtered. This was the 
first blow struck ; it was struck by the Pilgrims, and was as wicked a 
murder as was ever committed by scarlet hypocrisy in the name of 
God ! And such was the opinion even at the time. When Mr. Robinson, 
the father of the Plymouth colony, and one of the ablest, purest, and 
most liberal men of his day, heard how his people had conducted in 
this affair with the Indians, he wrote to them to consider of the dis- 
position of Captain Standish, "who was of warm temper." "He 
doubted," he said, "whether there was not wanting that tenderness of 
the life of man, made after God's image, which was so necessary ; and, 
above all, that it would have been happy if they had converted some 
before they had killed any." 

The Pequot war was the first which enabled the colonists to show 
their powers against the Indians in any general engagement. It was 
the deliberate purpose of the English to exterminate the Pequots — to 
destroy man, woman and child, so that none might remain to cumber 
the soil which the white man coveted. The Pequots had sought refuge 
in a fort situated in a swamp. They were surprised and beset in the 
night, and, after an ineffectual resistance, massacred by hundreds. 
They attempted to escape, but were hunted from wigwam to wigwam 
and killed in every secret place. No quarter was given by the Puritans 
— no age nor sex was spared. Women and children were cut to pieces 
while endeavouring to hide themselves in and under the beds. At 
length, the fort was set on fire, and the dead and dying consumed 
together. Morton, the pious author of New England's memorial, who 
exults over this butchery with peculiar unction, says, "At this time it 
was a fearful sight to see them thus frying in the fire, and the streams 
of blood quenching the same : and horrible was the scent thereof. But 
the victory seemed a sweet sacrifice, and they gave the praise thereof 
to God." The equally pious Mr. Mather informs us that "it was sup- 
posed that no less than five or six hundred Pequot souls were brought 
down to hell that day." In this pleasant process of peopling the nether 
world, the worthy writer no doubt included all the infants whom 
the merciful Puritans slew, or who were burned in the conflagration, 
and the scent of whose scorching flesh was sweet incense to the Deity. 
The actors in this fiendish scene flattered themselves that they had 
done good service in the murder of the infidels ; and Mr. Winthrop 
feelingly says, in a letter describing the slaughter, " Our people are all 



NOTES. 319 

in health, the Lord be praised ; and though they had marched all day, 
and had been in fight all night, yet they professed they found themselves 
so as they could willingly have gone to such another business." The 
desolating consequences of the massacre may be estimated from the 
facts mentioned by Mr. Morton. ''The prisoners were divided, some 
to those of the river, and the rest to us of these parts. We send the 
male children to Bermuda by Mr. Wm. Pierce, and the women and 
maid children are disposed about the towns." Thus was a nation ex- 
tirpated. 

We should not pass over without mention the fate of Miantonimo. 
He was powerful, and that was a crime not to be forgiven. Although 
friendly to the whites, he was treated as a foe. Charges were raised 
against him, and, conscious of his innocence, he repaired to Boston, 
met and repelled them. At length a war arose between him and 
Uncas, a neighbouring chief. Miantonimo had been furnished by a 
friend with a heavy suit of armour, which kindness was his ruin. He 
was taken prisoner. When brought before Uncas, his foe, he refused 
to abase himself by pleading for his life, and was sent by that subser- 
vient chief to the English. The whites had no quarrel with Mianto- 
nimo. They wished his death, but dared not destroy him. The com- 
missioners of the united colonies determined that there was no sufficient 
ground to justify his being put to death, but were of opinion that it 
would not be safe to set him at liberty. The issue was a distinct one, — 
justice demanded his liberation, expediency his murder. They were 
embai'rassed. To remove the difficulty, five of the most judicious elders 
were called into the council, and with this addition to the number of 
the assembly, there was not much difficulty in determining in favour of 
death. As the murder of a friend might, however, look disgracious, it 
was determined to keep the deed of blood secret ; and Uncas was pri- 
vately directed to take the magnanimous Miantonimo, the friend of the 
white man, into his own territory and execute him. It was accordingly 
done, and the act of pious treachery and solemn murder is recorded 
against its authors for ever. When Aristides reported to the Athenian 
people that a scheme which had been referred to him was eminently 
expedient, but unjust, that pagan people with one voice rejected it: 
when the same question was put to the "judicious elders," they re- 
garded the deliberate murder of a friend as a trifling sacrifice of prin- 
ciple to expediency. 

The most important feature of Indian history in New England is the 
first and final stand made against the whites by King Philip. On the 



320 



NOTES. 



death of Massassoit, the early and fast friend of the settlers, his son 
Alexander became chief of the tribe. Upon a surmise that Alexander 
was not friendly to the whites, the English sent Mr. Winslow and a 
band of stout men to seize him. They effected the outrage, and made 
an independent and friendly king their prisoner. But his proud spirit 
could not brook his degradation ; the ingratitude and unkindness of 
the English so preyed upon his spirits that he was at once thrown into 
a fever, and the high-souled Indian died of grief and mortification. 
Thus was murdered the son of the white man's benefactor, and the 
chief of a nation for fifty years in alliance with the English. 

The hapless Alexander was succeeded by Metacom or Philip, who 
was made of sterner stuff. He was never born to be a slave. Philip 
had the genius of a statesman, the zeal of a patriot, and the fortitude 
of a martyr. Having conceived the glorious idea of rescuing his coun- 
try and saving his race, he united the various tribes of New England, 
and prepared to make a last and desperate stand. His plans were 
anticipated, or they would probably have proved successful. A traitor 
of his tribe, named Saussaman, having justly forfeited his life, was put 
to death by the Indians. The whites espoused the cause of the traitor, 
and, without jurisdiction or right, tried and executed three Indians 
charged with being concerned in his death. This outrage upon their 
natural independence maddened the Indians, and the contest was pre- 
cipitated when the plans of Philip were yet immature. It is said that 
this stoic of the woods wept when the first blood was shed ; — he foresaw 
the struggle that must ensue, and knew that it was a struggle of life 
and death to him and to his country. It is not necessary to enumerate 
the accumulated provocations which drove Philip into hostilities. He 
could not avoid it, except by the most abject submission. Peace was 
destruction as well as degradation, and war, though it might be more 
sudden, could not be more certainly fatal. The details of the contest 
that ensued are familiar to every reader. On the part of the English, 
the sanguinary spirit which characterized the former Indian wars dis- 
tinguished this. No mercy was given. Premiums were paid for In- 
dian scalps : and those of the natives that were not slain nor burned 
alive were only spared to be shipped and sold for slaves. The result 
of the war was decisive of the fate of the Indians in New England. 
The Pokanokets were exterminated. The Narraghansetts lost a thou- 
sand of their number in a single battle. The Indians on the Connec- 
ticut river were driven off, and the country fell into the hands of the 
whites by the right of conquest. Philip never smiled after the first 



NOTES. 



321 



blow. Despairing and gloomy, but undaunted and active, he performed 
prodigies "which induced the Pilgrims to believe that he possessed super- 
natural power. He endured his reverses unshrinkingly, and so far was 
he from dreaming of submission, that he slew with his own hand, upon 
the spot, the only Indian that ever dared to propose it. After witness- 
ing the destruction not only of his family but of his entire people, the 
gloomy chief was himself slain by the whites, and saved the misery of 
surviving his country. He was quartered and his remains treated with 
signal indignity. His only son, a boy of nine years, fell into the hands 
of the conquerors, and was shipped to Bermuda and sold as a slave. 
The Plymouth court had some scruples of conscience in adopting this 
ungenerous and cruel measure, and applied to the clergymen of the 
colony. These reverend gentlemen, instead of interposing to avert the 
crime, recommended the murder of the poor boy. The measure origi- 
nally contemplated was, however, preferred ; and this wretched relic 
of a wretched race was sold, by Christians, into slavery. A distin- 
guished writer has given the following sketch of Philip : "He was a 
patriot, attached to his native soil — a prince, true to his subjects, and 
indignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, 
patient of fatigue, of hunger, and of every variety of bodily suffering, 
and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, 
and with an untamed love of liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among 
the beasts of the forest, or in the dismal and famished recesses of 
swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submis- 
sion, and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury of the 
settlements. With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would 
have graced a civilized warrior, and rendered him the theme of the 
poet and historian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native 
land, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and 
tempest, without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to 
record his struggle." — Irvine/. 

Note 6, page 171. 

The incident referred to is strikingly illustrative of the aggressions 
by which the whites have so often driven the natives to war. The 
Legislature of Virginia had offered a premium for Indian scalps — a 
bounty for murder (one of the settled points of European policy toward 
the Indians). A body of Cherokees from the South had served in the 
campaign with the English, and proceeded on their way homeward, 



6ZZ NOTES. 

under the command of British officers. The band was watched with long- 
ing eyes by the dealers in scalps, as they returned through Virginia. 
They waylaid them as they passed on, war-worn and wasted, and mur- 
dered them without mercy. Forty innocent men — the friends and 
champions of their murderers — were thus slaughtered for their scalps. 
At one place, a monster entertained a party of Indians, and treated 
them kindly, while at the same time he caused a gang of his kindred 
ruffians to lie in ambush where they were to pass, and when they 
arrived they were shot down to a man ! Of the entire band one fugi- 
tive escaped, and bore the tale of treachery and blood to the Cherokees. 
And what did these savages ? Did they rush to their weapons and 
precipitate themselves upon the frontiers like a torrent? They had 
not yet caught the white man's love of blood. Atakullakulla, their 
chief, secreted the white men then in the Indian country, to protect 
them from the first burst of rage. He then assembled his warriors, 
inveighed with great bitterness against the murderous English, and 
swore that never should the hatchet be buried until the blood of their 
slaughtered countrymen was atoned for. " But," said he, " let us not 
violate our faith or the laws of hospitality by imbruing our hands 
in the blood of those now in our power. They came to us in the confi- 
dence of friendship, with belts of wampum to cement a perpetual alli- 
ance with us. Let us carry them back to their own settlements, and 
then take up the hatchet like warriors." Not only was this noble 
course pursued, but the Cherokees, before they dug up the hatchet and 
lighted their war-fires, sent deputies to entreat that justice might be 
done them. It was denied ; and they rushed in thousands upon the 
frontier. In such a contest who were the savages ; and with which 
side did the God of justice take part? 

We will add a word in relation to the progress and character of the 
war thus commenced. After the first burst of indignation, the Chero- 
kees became tired of the contest, and sent a deputation of thirty chiefs 
to sue for peace. Governor Lyttleton refused to hear them, and ordered 
them into close and cruel confinement. Enraged at this treatment of 
their ambassadors, the Indians again flew to arms, and defeated the 
numerous and well-appointed armies sent against them. Again the 
Indians solicited peace, and again it was denied them. A powerful 
force was raised, and a fearful struggle ensued, which resulted in the 
defeat of the Indians. The victors were guilty of every species of 
treachery and barbarity. In order to whet to the keenest edge the 
appetite for blood, the Assembly raised the premium on Cherokee scalps 



NOTES. 



323 



from £25 to £35. Again, and now in the humblest manner, the Indiana 
sued for peace ; and the whites, sated with slaughter, consented. The 
Cherokees submitted to every condition imposed but one. Of that one 
it is impossible to speak without a thrill of horror. It was required 
that the humbled Cherokees should, in the face of the English army, 
and for their entertainment, butcher four Cherokees — four of their own 
brethren ; or, if preferred, present to the English four green Cherokee 
scalps, fresh from the heads of the victims. This was the demand of 
Christians: the savages shrunk from it with horror. By an earnest 
appeal, they succeeded in procuring the remission of the infernal ho- 
mage ; and returned to their desolate wigwams to ponder, with grate- 
ful admiration, on the white man's mercy. 



Note 7, p. 172. 

A braver warrior or a better man than Logan perhaps never existed 
in a race of unconverted savages. During the French war Logan re- 
fused to take part, and was active only in deeds of mercy, doing all in 
his power to soften the horrors of the contest. In 1774, some white land- 
jobbers, to whom an Indian war is as profitable as a battle to carrion- 
birds, determined that blood should be spilled. Jefferson states that, led 
by Colonel Cressap, they fell in with a party of friendly Indians ; and, 
under the guise of unsuspected friendship, fell upon and slaughtered 
them. Among the victims were several of the family of the white man's 
friend — Logan. Shortly after, another party, men, women and chil- 
dren, were betrayed and destroyed. Colonel Cressap secreted a band 
of whites in the vicinity of a body of Indians, and invited the latter to 
leave their encampment and drink with him. Those who did so were 
murdered ; and as their companions, who heard the firing, crossed the 
river, they were deliberately fired upon and killed. Among the mur- 
dered was a brother of Logan and his sister, whose delicate situation 
greatly aggravated the horrid crime. 

" And what man knowing this, 
And haying human feelings, does not blush 
And hang his head to think himself a man." 

These outrages were without provocation or pretext. It is not pre- 
tended that the Indians had given offence. It was unprovoked, delibe- 
rate, cold-blooded murder. In the war which ensued, for Logan imme- 



324 NOTES. 

diately sounded the war-whoop, the Indians performed prodigies of 
valour. The final battle took place on the Ohio. Never was a battle 
better fought. The Indians had erected a breastwork, and there, under 
Logan, Cornstalk, Elenipsico, Red Eagle, and other mighty chiefs of 
the combined tribes, they maintained the contest from the rising to the 
setting of the sun. The whites displayed equal gallantry, and the fire 
was never remitted. The officers manifested the most chivalric cou- 
rage, cheering on their men even with their last breath. Within the 
breastwork, Cornstalk, one of the boldest warriors that ever met a foe, 
raged like a wounded lion ; and amid and above the din of battle, his 
voice of thunder was heard crying to his men, "Be strong ! be strong !" 
In the most appalling moment of the fight, a faint-hearted Indian 
attempted to desert; the eagle eye of the chief marked him, and 
striding up to him he sunk his tomahawk in the front of the coward 
and traitor, and pointed his warriors furiously to the terrible example. 
But valour was vain against discipline ; and the Indians, after a noble 
contest, were forced to retire over the Ohio. A peace was shortly after 
negotiated ; but Logan refused to attend the council. He desired 
peace, but would not meet in amity those who had made his old age 
desolate, and sullenly remained at home — the home which rang no 
more with the wild glee of his innocent little ones. The white man 
had swept all ! 

" All his pretty chickens and their dam 
At one fell swoop." 

And he sat there in his desolation, and pondered on the Christian's 
humanity. But so important was his presence deemed that Lord Dun- 
more refused to conclude the treaty without him. They sent for him : 
and the reply of the injured chief is considered one of the noblest 
specimens of eloquence on record. A paraphrase of it has been at- 
tempted by Campbell, but its simple pathos defies imitation. The con- 
clusion of this speech is unequalled : " For my country I rejoice at the 
beams of peace. But do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy 
of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save 
his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ? Not one !" 

The peace was concluded — and what became of Logan ? The heart- 
broken chief wandered from the scene of his sorrows to the west; 
where, to complete the tragedy, he was himself murdered by, it is said, 
a white man. 



NOTKvS. 326 

Note 8, p. 172. 

It is alleged by high authority (see the articles in the North American 
Review, ascribed to Cass), that tha Indians cannot be converted: the 
readiest answer to the impious and profane absurdity is, that they 
have been converted. A large body of Indians had been converted by 
the Moravian missionaries, and settled in the west ; where their sim- 
plicity, harmlessness, and happiness seemed a renewal of the better 
days of Christianity. During the Revolutionary war, these settlements, 
named Lichtenau and Gnauddenhutten, being located in the seat of the 
frontier Indian contests, were exposed to outrage from both parties. 
Being, however, under the tuition and influence of the whites, and 
having adopted their religion and the virtuous portion of their habits, 
they naturally apprehended that the hostile Indians, sweeping down 
upon the American frontier, would take advantage of their helplessness 
and destroy them as allies of the whites. Subsequent events enable us 
to compare the red and white man, and determine which is the savage. 
A party of two hundred hostile Hurons fiercely approached the Mora- 
vian Indians' towns. The Christian Indians conducted themselves, in this 
trying extremity, with meekness and firmness. They sent a deputation 
with refreshments to their approaching foes, and told them that, by 
the word of God, they were taught to be at peace with all men, and 
entreated for themselves and their white teachers peace and protection. 
And what replied the savage, fresh from the wilds and panting for 
blood ? Did he mock to scorn the meek '^xid Christian appeal ? Did 
he answer with the war-whoop and lead on his men to the easy slaugh- 
ter of his foes ? What else could be expected from an Indian ? Yet 
such was 7iot the response of the red warrior. He said that he was on 
a war party, and his heart had been evil, and his aim had been blood ; 
but the words of his brethren had opened his eyes. He would do them 
no harm. " Obey your teachers," said he; "worship your God, and 
be not afraid. No creature shall harm you." 

Such was the treatment of hostile Indians — let us now examine the 
conduct of friendly whites. One would think the inquiry unnecessary. 
They were the white man's friends, of course he cherished them ; his 
allies, of course he protected them ; his Christian brethren, of course 
he loved them. We will see how these duties were fulfilled. In the 
winter of 1782, a body of eighty or ninety whites were gathered on the 
frontier, determined to shed Indian blood. There were, however, no 
Indians Avithin their reach, except their innocent and Christian friends 

28 



320 NOTE?, 

at the Moravian towns. They were not, however, to be disappointed 
of their feast of blood. They proceeded to the towns of the Christian 
Indians — not in hot blood, for it was distant two days' march — but pre- 
pared, coolly and with Epicurean deliberation, to enjoy the luxury of 
murder. Messengers were despatched by Colonel Gibson to warn the 
victims of their danger ; but, strong in their innocence and in their 
confidence of the white man's justice, (the white man's justice, indeed !) 
they refused to fly. The whites arrived at the village on the second 
day. The historian informs us that on their arrival at the town, they 
professed peace and good will to the Moravians, and informed them 
that they had come to take them to Fort Pitt for their safety. The 
Indians surrendered, delivered up their arms, and appeared highly 
delighted with the prospect of their removal ; and began with all speed 
to Drepare food for the white men and for themselves on their journey. 
A party of white men and Indians was immediately despatched to 
Salem, a short distance from Gnauddenhutten, where the Indians were 
gathering in their corn, to bring them in to Gnauddenhutten. The 
pai-ty soon arrived with the whole number of Indians from Salem. In 
the mean time the Indians at Gnauddenhutten were confined in two 
houses, some distance apart, and placed under guards ; and when those 
from Salem arrived, they were divided, and placed in the same houses 
with their brethren of Gnauddenhutten. The prisoners being thus 
secured, a council of war was held to decide on their fate. The offi- 
cers, unwilling to take on themselves the whole responsibility of the 
decision, agreed to refer the question to the whole number of the 
party. The men were accordingly drawn up in a line. The com- 
mandant of the party, Col. David Williamson, then put the question to 
them, in form, whether the Moravian Indians should be taken prisoners 
to Pittsburg, or put to death ? requesting all who were in favour of 
saving their lives to step out of the line and form a second rank. On 
this, sixteen, some say eighteen, stepped out of the rank ; but, alas ! 
this line of mercy was far too short for that of vengeance. The pri- 
soners were ordered to prepare for death. From the time they were 
placed in the guard-houses they foresaw their fate, and began their 
devotions, singing hymns, praying, and exhorting each other to place 
a firm reliance in the Saviour of men. That was, alas ! their only 
reliance ! The whites commenced the butchery ; and, without distinc- 
tion of age or sex, destroyed them all. The hyenas that thus lapped 
up the blood of infants went unpunished ; indeed, had the Indian Pen- 
sion Bill of 1886 passed, they would have been entitled to a rich annuity 



NOTES. 327 

for a deed which has, perhaps, no parallel in the annals of crime. For 
dark as were the cruelties of Spain, she never sacrificed her Christian 
friends. And yet, with this record before us, we dare to talk of the 
cruelty of the Indians ! 

The massacre at Lancaster, in Pennsylvania, was scarcely less atro- 
cious. A number of Christian Indian^ lived inoffensively in the neigh- 
bourhood of Lancaster. Their only offence was that they were Indians. 
The whites possessed themselves of the land of these Indians, saying 
that it was against the laws of God that it should remain in the hands 
of heathens when Christians wanted it. They were Christian profes- 
sors, used Bible phrases, talked of God's commanded vengeance on the 
heathen, and said the saints should inherit the earth. Accordingly, 
these saints commenced by the murder of fourteen Christian Indians. 
The other Christian Indians, terrified at the outrage, fled to Lancaster, 
and, for protection, were placed in prison. But the Paxtang boys — so 
were the miscreants called — followed them, entered Lancaster, and at 
mid-day broke open the prison and murdered the unresisting and un- 
offending men, women, and children who had there sought refuge. 
Other Indians in amity with us, hearing of this massacre, fled for pro- 
tection to Philadelphia. They were received with great coldness 
(except by the Quakers, the steady friends of the afilicted Indian), and 
after several removals were sent to New York. In the mean time, 
however, the Paxtang boys, to the number of several hundred, marched 
to Philadelphia, not only to destroy the wretched Indians, but to punish 
their protectors. They arrived at Germantown, where they were met 
by a deputation of citizens headed by Benjamin Franklin, who succeeded 
in appeasing them ; and these white savages returned to their homes. 
I will only add that they went unpunished. Who ever heard of white 
men being punished for the murder of Indians ? 

Note 9, p. 174. 

Art thou too fallen, Iberia ? Do we see 
The robber and the murderer weak as we ? 
Thy pomp is in the grave : thy glory laid 
Low in the pit thine avarice hath made ! 

COWPER. 

Note 10, p. 175. 

General W;ishington's policy during the war, and after it as President 
of jthe United States, was one of strict probity and Christian benevolence 



828 NOTES. 

to the Indian; and its success proved his -wisdom as well as his justice. 
The Indians regarded him with the utmost confidence and affection. 
Indeed the organization of the government heralded a milder and better 
era for the red man. Since that time, we have no doubt that the 
government has cherished a sincere desire to bind up the wounds of 
that persecuted and fainting people. But the same wolfish spirit in 
our border population, which has heretofore followed the red man from 
forest to forest, marking each recession with outrage and bloodshed, is 
as fierce and unsparing now as at first. Their aggressions have induced 
wars ; and the same perfidious and sanguinary temper has characterized 
those wars. The Black Hawk contest is fresh in the remembrance of 
all. Like every Indian war, it arose in a quarrel for their lands. The 
first blow was struck by the whites. The Indians sent a deputation 
with a white flag to the whites— they were made prisoners. They sent 
another deputation — they were fired upon and killed. The whites, two 
hundred and seventy in number, hastened to attack Black Hawk with 
a wretched band of forty warriors. What could they do but fight ? 
And they did fight like lions at bay, and defeated the aggressors. 
Thus commenced the war — how did it end? Indian wars in this 
country have for centuries had but one history. They are commenced 
in aggression by the whites, prosecuted in suflFering to both parties, 
characterized by mutual cruelties, and consummated by a grand mas- 
sacre of Indians, — men, women, and children. Black Hawk attempted 
to flee, with his tribe, from the evil genius of his race, to a remoter 
wilderness. They were followed by the whites with the steadiness of 
bloodhounds. Parties of them sought to make submission, displaying 
the white flag, and appearing without arms : the white man's answer 
to their moving appeal for mercy was sent in a volley of bullets, 
showered among their women and children. After a weary pursuit, 
the American army, sixteen hundred strong, overtook the wretched 
band of fugitive men, women, and children. The Indians were fcAV, 
famished, helpless, surrounded by women and children : they endea- 
voured, so says Black Hawk, to surrender ; but the whites refused their 
submission: they were to be slaughtered — to be ofi'ered to 

"The fire-ej'ed maid of smoky war, 
All hot and reeking." 

The soldiers poured a deadly fire upon the starved and fainting fugi- 
tives. There was no escape for them. They could not yield, for the 



NOTES. 329 

whites rejected tlieir submission — they could not fly, for they were en- 
vironed ; — there was but one desperate resource : it was a milder death, 
from the waters of the Mississippi, than could be expected at the hands 
of the Christians ? Accordingly, men, women, and children plunged 
into the river, where they either drowned or were shot by the whites. 
And this took place within a few years. Did not a universal shudder 
shake the bosom of the whole republic ? No ; it was published one 
day and forgotten the next. 

The following incident, which occurred in this battle, will illustrate 
the character of the war. A young Indian mother, only nineteen 
years old, stood among the other females, with a daughter four years 
old in her arms. The whites fired upon these females, and as the 
child clung around her mother's neck, a ball struck its right arm above 
the elbow, and, shattering the bone, passed into the breast of its mother, 
who fell dead to the ground. She fell upon the child and confined it 
to the ground also. During the whole battle this babe groaned and 
called for relief, but who would leave the banquet of blood to aid a 
dying infant? After the battle, however, the child was taken from 
the bleeding breast of its dead mother, and carried to the surgeon. 
The amputation of the arm was necessary; but the child, fearful as 
was the wound, forgot it in the agony of famine. A piece of raw meat 
was thrown to the little sufferer, which she continued ravenously to 
devour during the operation. The sufferings of the famished infant 
may be imagined from the fact that neither the knife nor the saw of 
the surgeon interrupted her feast, or extorted a tear or a groan. We 
derived this fact from an eye-witness, an ofl&cer in the army, who has 
since been sacrificed in Florida ; and find it recorded, with an unim- 
portant variation, in Drake's Indian Biography. 



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